Behind Those Eyes
by Wallflowergirl
Summary: The instincts that raised the hackles on the back of one's neck, that warned one when something was watching... I knew with that extra sense that I wasn't alone. Pre-Season: hurt!Sam, angst!everyone. Outsider POV, sort-of.
1. Chapter 1

**_I'm so HAPPY to be writing again (non-thesis writing, that is). It feels like forever since I last posted! For some reason my mind is only working on pre-season at the moment, so this fic has nothing to do with what's happening in the show at the moment! So this is a spoiler-free zone. Unless you haven't seen _Something Wicked_, which... um... no comment._**

**_The title of this one is taken from the album Seventeen Days_ by _3 Doors Down._**

**_Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. Although Christmas isn't too far away... 8-)_**

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There was someone in the sanctuary.

I'd left the doors unlocked, as usual. Not because I didn't know what was out there; most pastors are not the rose-coloured-spectacle-wearing ingénues that people imagine, and I'd seen even more evil than the average man of God.

I'd seen more evil than the average man, come to think of it.

I knew what was out there, and I knew what could come in. But I also knew what needed to come in, and I wasn't going to deny safety to someone who might need it, especially not on a night like this one, with the rain that had been drenching us all day and the wind that worried at that loose beam over the gallery.

That same rain and wind had me enjoying the fire in my study and the rare opportunity to sit quietly beside it. I'd had meetings every night so far this week – a maintenance sub-committee meeting about the loose gallery beam on Monday, marriage counselling on Tuesday, mediating in the long-standing disagreement between Mrs. Jones and Mrs. De Soto about the new crèche decor on Wednesday – and, as much as I loved my parishioners, it was wonderful not to have to talk to anyone. There was also that book Clarence had sent me over a month ago that I hadn't had a chance to read yet.

And then just as I'd settled, book in hand, fire at feet and old Mrs. Sterley's delicious beef soup on the little table beside me, the church door banged.

The draught from the open door had blown out the candles. I pulled the doors shut, and turned back to the sanctuary, and then stopped.

There was someone there.

In the dim light trickling through stained glass windows, I could see very little. The tops of pews created weirdly elongated shapes on the aisle carpet; at the front the bulk of the altar was distorted, in the way that darkness alters the old and familiar. There was nothing to be seen that shouldn't have been there, and there was no sound other than my own breathing over the groan of the wind outside.

But there was definitely someone there.

I'd been a pastor for forty years; I'd been a hunter for even longer. The instincts that raised the hackles on the back of one's neck, that warned one when something was watching... they worked as well in a darkened church as in a forest or a dilapidated haunted house, and I knew with that extra sense that I wasn't alone.

"Hello?"

There were deep shadows where the light didn't penetrate. I shifted along the wall towards the light switch.

There was no answer, but in the pause as my hand found the switch, I heard a rustle. Near me.

Right beside me.

My fingers pressed harder than I'd intended.

Suddenly warmed by the glow of overhead lights, the church was comfortable and familiar again. Altar... pews... candles... organ... everything as usual –

Except for the man in a huddled heap on the floor at my feet.

For all I'd suspected his presence it was still startling to see someone there. For a moment I didn't move, my heart beating a little faster than is acceptable in a hunter. And then he shifted, with a soft groan, and for the first time I saw his face.

Not a man. A boy.

His face was thinner, more angular than I remembered, but the thick dark hair drooping across his forehead and obscuring his features was only too familiar.

"Good heavens." It was the strongest exclamation I permitted myself. "Sam Winchester!"

I'd not seen Sam – or John or Dean, for that matter – for close on two years, but any pleasure I might have felt at the unexpected reunion was overpowered by the nature of it. He was soaked through, hair in sodden rat-tails trailing over a dirty face and shabby clothes clinging wetly.

"Sam, what are you doing here?" My knees complained as I crouched down beside him. "Where –" A gasp swallowed the rest of what I'd intended to say.

It wasn't dirt.

Bruises created angry purple-black shadows, swelling one eye shut and distorting the lines of cheek and jaw into stark asymmetry. Blood still leaked sluggishly from a split lip. Up close, I could see how tremors shuddered through him. And how the shallow breaths hitched with every involuntary shiver; I'd cracked ribs myself on numerous occasions, and didn't doubt there were more bruises under that drenched sweater.

"Sam – child, what happened?" I was not unused to seeing certain of my friends in a less than healthy condition. I'd patched Sam's father up several times, and even, once, his brother. But I'd never seen Sam like this.

"Sam?" His lack of response alarmed me.

Almost as much as his lack of family.

Dean had been Sam's self-appointed bodyguard for almost as long as I could remember: since, in fact, that night when their mother had died and small Dean had carried smaller Sammy away from the fire. I'd never seen Sam like this, because Dean was always between him and the threat. But Dean wasn't with him now, and had obviously not protected him – been able to protect him – from whatever had done this.

And that quite probably meant that Dean was in even worse shape than his brother.

"Sam, where's Dean? Where's your father?"

Whether it was the mention of his family I wasn't sure, but those questions seemed to rouse him. His head turned a little in the direction of my voice, and his eyes – or the one that wasn't swollen shut – opened, peering dazedly up at me.

"P-pastor Jim..."

I knew a moment's relief that he'd recognised me. In the state he was in, a concussion wouldn't have been unexpected.

"Yes, it's me. What happened, Sam? Where's your father –" I broke off, startled at Sam's reaction. His breath caught, a response that was not due to the pain of cracked ribs, and one hand fumbled for my arm, fingers hooking onto the sleeve.

"P-pastor Jim...you... you have to... please..." His gaze flitted from my face to the shadows, behind and above, and then back. "_P-please_..." His grip tightened, twisting the fabric almost painfully. I could feel the soft irregular vibration of trembling fingers against my arm.

It was the trembling that decided me. I didn't know what had happened, where John and Dean were, and Sam's behaviour so far was more than concerning. I didn't doubt that the two older Winchesters were in trouble. Trapped, possibly, or too badly hurt to move; for John Winchester, a man who'd hunted with injuries that would have put most ordinary people in hospital, "too badly hurt to move" was not a scenario I liked.

But right now I had an injured and probably hypothermic teenager huddled on the floor of my church, and as much as John and Dean might require my help, Sam's need was more immediate.

"Come, Sam, let's get you cleaned up and into bed –"

"B-but... but what if... he m-might..." He swallowed, words stuttering out between shaky breaths. " P-pastor Jim, please... p-please don't... d-don't let him..."

"Alright. Alright, Sam. It's going to be fine. I'll sort it out, I promise." It was foolish to make a promise that I knew I had no guarantee of being able to keep, but at that moment Sam's need for reassurance was greater than mine for a clear conscience. "But we need to get you fixed up first, alright? Then you can tell me what happened, and we can organise help for Dean and your father." I put my hand over the shivering one gripping my sleeve, and patted it briefly before gently prising it loose.

Sam blinked at me, a look that was almost confusion flickering momentarily across the battered face.

"Dean..." he murmured. His fingers flexed a little. "Dean... Pastor Jim... n-need to..."

"I know, and I will sort it out, Sam, but you need to let me help you first." I slid my arm under his shoulders as I spoke, easing him into a sitting position. "Come on... there you go..." My arm shifted involuntarily to take his weight as he slumped heavily against me.

"P-pastor Jim..." It was pain I was hearing in the thickly slurred words. "M-my... _hurts_..." His head rolled against my shoulder.

"Sam?"

His face was turned down. A trickle of water slithered coldly over the front of my shirt from where dripping strands of hair pressed against my neck. He didn't answer.

"_Sam?_" I slid my free hand under his chin, tilting his head up gently. But I'd felt the change in the way he leant against me, the sudden boneless sag, and I wasn't surprised when I saw that his eyes were shut again.

Even in unconsciousness he was shivering. Tucked against me, the chilled body leached warmth from mine; I could feel the damp from sodden clothes soaking through the heavy sweater I was wearing. I needed to get him warm, out of those wet clothes, into bed.

My back was not going to approve of this; unconscious bodies, even those of too-thin teenage boys, are heavy and awkward. I shifted his weight more securely against me, hooking my other arm under his knees. And then his arm slithered limply from where he'd curled it around his middle, and thoughts of my disapproving back fled my mind.

Rainwater had darkened the gray of his sweatshirt. But the heavier darkness of his right sleeve was not the result of water, and it wasn't water that was staining the pale beige carpet with flecks of scarlet.

~oooOOOooo~

I'd been right about my back.

Sam had grown considerably from the chubby little boy he'd once been. He'd also got thinner, but the elongated arms and legs that flopped loosely more than compensated for the loss of baby fat. There seemed nothing left of that sunny child in this tall young man sprawled supine on my guest room bed.

He hadn't come round since I'd brought him up here, although the soft periodic groans had warned me that he was feeling the pain of movement. He was still shivering, despite the pyjamas – the warmest I owned – that had replaced his drenched clothes.

I'd been right about the bruises, too.

It was his arm, though, that was my chief concern. When I'd seen the blood, on his sleeve and in a broad swathe across his waist where he'd cradled his arm, my first nightmare conclusion had been a torn artery. The uncontrollable shivering, the incoherence, the unconsciousness... I'd attributed them to the cold, but the blood gave them an altogether more sinister significance. I'd even seriously considered taking Sam to our local hospital, which in Winchester terms is very much a last resort.

Now, with the mess of sticky half-dried blood cleaned away, I could see the damage clearly. Easily three inches long, the gash was torn obliquely across the inside of the forearm, deep into the muscle.

But it had somehow complete missed any major blood vessels.

It was ugly, the area around it swollen and reddened with incipient infection. It was obvious Sam had come by this injury several hours previously. I had no idea whether he'd spent the intervening time trying to escape his attacker, or trying to find help; that he would never have survived if the artery had been sliced was certain.

I thought at that moment about Dean, about old eyes in the young face of a boy who'd been forced to grow up too quickly, to shoulder burdens too heavy for many adults, and I wondered a little sadly if it might have been easier for him if he'd been able to accept that he wasn't the only one watching out for Sammy.

It was too late to stitch the wound. The bleeding had almost stopped, anyway, now that Sam was out of the rain and it had had time to clot; even when I cleaned it carefully, there was very little seeping. I dressed it and tucked Sam's arm under the bedclothes, pulling them more snugly around him.

The damp dark head turned a little on the pillow.

"Dean..." There was pain in the drowsy murmur, and weariness; but it was mostly just the tone of a child secure in the knowledge that he is safe. Drifting somewhere between unconsciousness and sleep, Sam was likely aware of little other than that he'd been hurt, and someone was taking care of him. Beyond conscious thought, instinctively, it was Dean he called for, Dean he associated with safety.

And as soon as I spoke I was going to shatter that sense of security. Because Dean wasn't here, and it was only his half-conscious dreams that had lulled Sam into forgetting what had really happened.

His left hand groped its way free of the blankets.

"Dean?"

More awareness this time. Fingers flexed, reaching vaguely, and the sleeve of the too-big pyjamas slid back to expose the narrow wrist.

And the raw welt that encircled it.

It was that, oddly enough, that made it easier for me to wake Sam. I'd seen similar markings many times; the wounds left by ropes or handcuffs, abrading the skin as the prisoner struggled to free himself. It matched the scored flesh on Sam's right wrist. Something – someone – had trapped him, had used a knife on him; Sam had managed to escape, but it was more than likely that the rest of his family was still captive, and as much as I wanted to let him rest, it was John and Dean who needed help now.

"Sam?"

Both eyebrows lifted, as if trying to drag stubborn eyelids up with them. His eyes moved, lashes flickering, and opened reluctantly.

"De –" Then he stiffened, and his gaze flicked to me, as sudden awareness slammed him back to reality. "Pastor Jim."

"How're you feeling?"

He blinked.

"I... I'm okay..." His voice was hoarse, I noticed now, as if he'd been coughing.

Or screaming.

"Sam, I don't want to push you, but can you tell me what happened? Where are Dean and your father?"

He blinked again, hard, and turned his head away. I saw his throat bob as he swallowed.

"I... uh... Dean is... Dean..." He sucked in a shaky breath. "Dean went on a hunt."

"_Dean_ went on a hunt? And your father?"

I caught a glimpse of green-blue eyes wide with misery. Sam's lower lip trembled once, before he clamped his teeth down on it. He didn't answer.

"Sam, child..." There was serious trouble here. "Sam, what happened? What did this to you?"

His fingers scrabbled on the blanket, clenching around a fistful, then smoothing it out. His nose wrinkled, lip curling and cheeks bunching. I could remember, from years previously, a button nose and cherub mouth crumpling in exactly the same way as toddler Sammy fought valiantly against tears.

"It was... it..." There was fear mixed in with the distress, and I remembered the incoherent panic when I'd found him. He was calmer now, more aware, but the horror seemed only to have strengthened.

"P-pastor Jim, it... it was Dad..."

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_**Reviews are love...**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, alerted or favourited – you guys are awesome!**_

_**Disclaimer: I do this for love, not money.**_

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Whatever explanation my mind could have conjured up, it would never have come close to the horror of the truth.

At that moment, staring wordlessly at the bruised face on the pillow, I found myself thinking yearningly of wendigos, vengeful spirits, poltergeists... even a vicious, non-supernatural, mugging. Sam had been hurt before, worse than this, and he'd undoubtedly be hurt again in the future. But by his father?

How could he ever get over that?

"Sam, I..." Shock... incredulity... I'm not sure what was on my face. For once in my life, I was struggling to find words. "Your _father_? But..."

He pursed his lips, pinching them together, but not before I'd seen them quivering.

"What happened? Didn't Dean..."

"It... it was after Dean left... after he went on his hunt. Dad was... he was fine until then. Well, I mean, he was angry with me, but..." Thin shoulders lifted in a shrug. "He's always angry with me, you know? But I never thought... I would never have thought..." His voice trembled, and he looked away again.

I would never have thought, either.

Well I knew that John was often angry with his younger son; the last time the Winchesters had stayed with me, two years previously, the two of them had butted heads almost continuously. To be fair to John – although right then I couldn't think that he deserved it – the arguments were as often Sam's fault as his. But even at the height of the worst of their fights, when John was yelling and Sam was slamming doors, I had never imagined that John would physically attack him. John was far from the perfect father, but that he loved his sons I'd never doubted.

Until now.

"Why... had you had an argument, or... I mean, what precipitated it?"

He was picking nervously at the blanket again.

"Well, we'd had an argument. About the hunt. We were in Brixton, you know – there were a bunch of people dying in the forest, and Dad thought it was a beserker. But... well, I did some research, and I thought it might be a chupacabra instead."

His mouth lifted in what might have been a smile, but there was no humour in it.

"You know, I thought... Dad's always bugging me to get more involved in the hunt... I thought he'd be pleased... I thought he'd be happy that I did some research... but he just... didn't listen. He just said it was a beserker, and that was the end of it. And then I got mad, and then he got mad, and we said some stuff... but... I mean, it was just... it was just normal, you know? Like... like it always is." He huffed a breath. "I mean, Dad and I... we're always fighting, but... but I always thought he... I never... I n-never..." He turned his head away on the pillow, dark brows drawn together and gaze focused fiercely on the wall. He was a Winchester, Winchester-trained, and Winchesters didn't cry. Crying was a sign of weakness.

Even in a fifteen-year-old whose world had crumbled.

"Sam –"

"It _was_ a beserker." Sam still wasn't looking at me.

"What?"

"The hunt. We went out, and... and Dad was right. It was a big one, too. Thing was, though, that I... well, I was still mad. I still thought it was a chupacabra, so I wasn't really ready, and when it came out, I..." He cleared his throat, but I'd heard the chagrin. "I... it was... it all went pear-shaped. I mean, we got away, but it threw Dad around a bit, and it woulda got me, but Dean was in the way, so it threw him around too... and we basically just had to run."

"_...it threw Dad around a bit..._"

"When your dad got tossed around – did he hit his head?" A momentary spark of hope; a concussion could alter people's behaviour, sometimes drastically. But the mournful half-smile on Sam's face told me he'd thought of that already.

"No, he was okay. Scraped and bruised, you know, but nothing serious. He was... he was angry, though. He got really quiet... like he does when we've... when I've done something... when I'm in a buttload of trouble. And he just... and he just... he dropped us... at the motel and... and left..." The expression on his face was wretched. He shifted uneasily under the blankets and flaring pain leached the meagre colour from his face as the movement jarred forgotten injuries. I kicked myself mentally: he wasn't the only one who'd momentarily forgotten those injuries, and he was looking, if possible, worse than before.

"Why don't we talk about this later, Sam, when you're feeling –" My words faded as he moved his head, in what would have been a negating shake if more coordinated.

"No. No. I need to... I need to..." The gravelly voice was close to a moan. "P-pastor Jim, I..." Unsteady fingers found my arm again, in a grip too weak to be uncomfortable. "We have to... he's gonna..." Heavy lids were drooping over painfully reddened eyes.

"I know, Sam. I'll take care of it, okay?"

"B-but..." His words slurred. His eyes were shut now; his hand slid limply from my arm to the bed, and he didn't resist when I tucked it under the blankets again. He'd gone down fast, from awake and reasonably coherent to somewhere between asleep and unconscious, and for a moment I wondered whether I should have obeyed my first instinct and taken him to hospital. I was experienced – too experienced – at doctoring injuries, but Sam was only a child, and there could be damage that I couldn't see.

But how would I explain away these injuries? I knew how often the Winchesters fell foul of CPS. Ironically, this time the authorities would be perfectly justified in their suspicions. Goodness only knew that the abuse of a child – particularly parental abuse – was something I hated almost more than the things I hunted, and the very last thing I wanted was for John to get away with what he'd done.

But there was _something_ that held me back.

Perhaps it was my over-familiarity with the bizarre. Perhaps it was my awareness that things were too often not as simple and obvious as they appeared.

Or maybe it was the memory of a younger John, less hardened and lined. Maybe it was the memory of arms wrapped around his sleeping youngest as he recounted the almost-tragedy of the shtriga. There was something in me that could not reconcile that John, eyes wet with fear and love, with a John who could do this to that same boy not ten years later.

A soft moan from the bed drew my attention. Sam had turned his head slightly, nose and swollen cheek half-buried in the pillow. One breath hitched.

"_Dean..._" The word was almost inaudible. None followed, and Sam lay still, eyes shut and breathing shallow but regular.

But there it was.

I could remember another face from that long-ago day, pale and terrified. Sam had been attacked by the shtriga, but Dean had really been the victim; shivering, refusing to talk, he'd huddled on my guest room bed beside his peacefully sleeping sibling and kept watch. Maybe I was just unwilling to accept the truth – and right now there was little to suggest that it was anything else but that – but until there was no other choice, I wasn't going to be part of shattering what little semblance of family still remained to the Winchesters.

I pulled myself to my feet and gathered my first aid paraphernalia together. I could still hear the rain's unending rhythm on the roof; across the room the window rattled in its casing. I still didn't know how long Sam had been outside in the storm. I still didn't really know anything, actually, despite what Sam had told me.

The sudden shrill of the telephone from my bedroom startled me more than it should have.

"Hello?" My shortness of breath when I answered had little to do with reaching it before it rang off.

"Pastor Jim?" A little older than last time, a little deeper. But I knew that voice.

"Dean." I didn't try to hide the relief in my voice. "Thank God you –"

"Pastor Jim, I need your help. It's Sam and Dad – they're missing. The truck's gone, and the motel room..."

"Dean –"

"I've tried calling them, but it's just going to voicemail. Their stuff is still in the room but it... it... Pastor Jim, it's a mess –"

"Dean –"

"I think something's taken them. I don't want to leave, in case they come back, but I need to go look for them, find out what's going on... you think you could –"

"_Dean._" I raised my voice slightly, cutting across the flow of hurried words. It was about as close to panicky as I'd ever heard him; Dean didn't give away his emotions like Sam did. It was testimony to just how worried he was that he was showing them now.

"What?"

"Sam's with me."

"What... with you?" There was a pause; when he spoke again his voice was calmer. "Dad dropped him off? Is he on another hunt, then? But –"

I really did not want to explain the situation over the phone.

"I think it would be best if you came here, Dean. Then we can talk, and I can explain what's going on." _What little I know, anyway, which probably isn't much more than you do._ "Are you at the motel now? In Brixton?"

"Yeah. Can I speak to Sam?"

"He's asleep right now –"

"Asleep? He's okay, right? Because the room here... is Dad's hunt something to do with why it's in chaos? But why did they leave their stuff then? And Dad's not answering his phone – I've been trying to get him since Tuesday."

"It's a bit complicated to explain over the phone, Dean," I said carefully. "I really think you should come down here, tonight preferably, before they find the room." _And before John finds you. _

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Okay, I'll be about an hour, then."

I'd never made the trip to Brixton in less than two.

I didn't think it'd be any use pointing that out to Dean.

~oooOOOooo~

Outside the downpour had diminished to a drizzle, although the night sky was sullen with the promise of heavier rain to come. The loose beam in the roof was banging again, hustled by the impatient gusts of wind.

Sam was still asleep, but uneasily so. He shifted frequently, breathing hitching and disturbed, and muttered vaguely now and then. Pain, or nightmares; I wasn't sure which. I couldn't have said which was worse. In the soft yellow wash of light from the bedside lamp his face was sickly and pinched.

From somewhere on the church property a cat yowled, and goose bumps prickled under my clergyman's black shirt. I'd never been particularly fond of cats. There was something inherently eerie about that wailing cry, lonely in the darkness. It spoke of the transformation of the normal and everyday into weird and unbelievable, of the sudden perversion of what had always been taken for granted.

And I was becoming too melodramatic. I shook myself, almost physically, and rubbed my eyes with thumb and index finger. The old-fashioned bell-topped alarm clock on the bookshelf told that Dean had been too optimistic in his estimate, and worry and relief warred within me.

I was dreading his arrival.

The fear, the sorrow, the hurt in Sam's eyes as he told me the story of his father's behaviour had been hard to see. John was his father, his only parent, whose love Sam had never doubted. And that love had been betrayed.

But Dean... John was Dean's hero. Dean had spent almost twenty years striving to be just like his father, following his orders, basking in his approval when he followed them well. The only task he took more seriously was watching out for his brother. The only role more important to Dean than "son" was "big brother".

And I was going to have to tell him that his father, his hero, the one he admired more than any other, had committed the greatest, the unforgivable sin: he'd attacked Dean's little brother.

The bed creaked, sheets rustling as Sam stirred again. His head tilted on the pillow, face turned slightly towards the window. A soundless beat, somewhere below the audible range, had further disturbed his already troubled sleep; his forehead wrinkled a little. Then I could hear it, too, and I knew that Sam had sensed his brother's approach even through his nightmares.

I pushed up from the armchair, trying to convince myself that the weight that curved my shoulders was fatigue from the lateness of the hour, and went downstairs.

Dean was a born hunter. Even hurrying, he moved with lithe grace and economy of movement. As he approached the porch where I stood holding the door open, his eyes swept the garden with swift assessment, an instinctive action which I doubted he did consciously.

"Dean." He, too, had changed since I'd last seen him; under my hand muscles bulked out what had been a bonier shoulder before.

"Pastor Jim." He nodded, mouth curving in a tight smile. His glance went from my face, around the little hall, and upwards to the top of the stairs. "Sam still asleep?"

"Yes." I pulled the door shut and locked it. The deadbolt was recalcitrant, screeching rustily as I worked it home. It hadn't been used in the last ten years or more. Dean had never seen me close it before, and I could feel his narrowed gaze on me.

"What's going on?"

"Dean –"

"Something's wrong. I mean, I'm not into all that emo instinct, vibey cra... uh... stuff, but I've got a really bad feeling about this." He dragged his palm over his mouth. "Look – I'm just gonna go see Sam real quick, okay?"

"Dean, just hold on a minute. We need to talk first."

He stilled, his body suddenly tense.

"Something's wrong with Sammy, isn't it? That's why you weren't talking over the phone." He swung away from me. "I need to see him –"

"Dean, wait. Listen to me – we have to talk, before you see Sam."

For a moment I thought he'd pull away from the grip I had on his wrist. Then he ducked his head, mouth twisting in reluctant acquiescence. I saw him swallow.

"What happened?"

"Honestly, I don't know much. Sam told me a little, but... well, he wasn't feeling great. He was..." I hesitated, let out a breath, started again. "I found him in the church a few hours ago. He was... attacked. Beaten up."

"Attacked?" His nostrils flared. Burgeoning anger showed itself in the quiver of his clenched jaw. "Badly?"

"Mostly scrapes and bruises. I think a couple of ribs might be cracked. There's a nasty cut on his arm, though, which looks like a knife wound."

"Damn it!" I'd been right about the anger. But there was fear in there, too. His eyes focused on my face. "Wait – you _found_ him? I thought Dad... Pastor Jim, what about Dad?"

"Dean –"

"Where is he?"

"I don't know." That was true, anyway.

"You don't know? But – how did Sam get here?"

"As far as I know, he walked."

"He _walked_? All the way from Brixton?" Dean's hand was gripping my arm now. "What happened to Dad, then? Did Sam tell you?"

"Dean, listen –"

"We need to call Caleb, Joshua, get some help. He's probably badly hurt, and we're just standing around here talking. I should have known something was wrong when they weren't answering the phone – this's been going on for days, and I just..." He breathed out, hard. "Did Sam say what it was? What did this?"

I closed my eyes for a moment, a prayer that was felt rather than verbalised.

"Yes. It... Dean, it was your father."

Fingers dug into my arm. Colour flooded Dean's face and drained away as quickly, leaving him almost as sickly pale as his brother upstairs.

"What?"

"I'm sorry, Dean." It was pathetically inadequate. Dean didn't even acknowledge it.

"No. No. That's impossible."

"Dean..."

"No!" He released my arm sharply. "You're wrong. There's no... there's no way Dad would _ever_..."

"Dean, I wish I was, but Sam told me –"

"What? That Dad... attacked him? He's wrong. He must be confused, or... if he walked from Brixton in this weather, he's probably hypothermic..."

"Dean."

"Or he could be concussed. That'd mess with his mind, make him think things that aren't right –"

"Dean, son –"

"I'm not your son!" He jerked back as I reached out instinctively. "I know my dad! I know him better than you, or anyone, and there is no way... there is no _way_ he would ever hurt Sam. You call yourself a friend of his and you believe crap like that about him?"

It was as bad as I'd expected. Dean was so adamant, so unwavering in his conviction; for a moment I was swayed by his anger. But I couldn't deny the evidence, the bruises and the blood and that vicious knife wound. And Sam's own testimony. I'd treated hypothermia, I'd treated concussion, and I knew Sam was telling the truth.

Dean would have to accept it eventually, and in the light of his passionate defence that realisation was going to be unbearable.

"I know. I know he loves you boys, and I hate this whole situation, but your dad... he's not perfect, Dean, and he becomes very focused when there's a hunt. Maybe if he thought Sam was being difficult, or obstructive, or if he'd had too much to drink..."

For a moment I wondered if he would hit me. Expression blank, eyes flat and deadly... I'd seen that expression before. I'd seen it years ago on Dean's father as he went back to hunt the shtriga.

"I don't have to –"

But I never discovered what Dean didn't have to do.

The shriek from upstairs was followed by a scrambling thud, and I saw fear spark in Dean's eyes before he turned and ran.

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_**Feedback is always greatly appreciated :-)**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**My author's notes always seem to start with an apology, so here goes: sorry for the almost-month hiatus on this one! I was on track for updating and then RL ambushed me seriously, with corrections on my thesis that had to be done urgently. Anyway, that's done and dusted, the examiners really liked it :-D, and I'm graduating on the 21**__**st.**_

_**Thanks to those of you who prodded me gently – and not so gently! I'm going to do my best to update more quickly from now on...**_

_**Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural, Season 6 would - well, no spoilers. But I don't own it *sigh*.**_

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Dean was a good forty years younger than I, but I knew the same fear that I'd seen in his eyes, and I reached Sam's room only seconds behind him.

I don't know what I'd expected to see: John, maybe, having somehow scaled the two levels and climbed in at the window. At some point in the near future I was going to have to face him, but the early hours of the morning, with his respectively shocked and traumatised sons watching, did not seem the ideal time for the showdown, and my initial sensation was one of relief when no intruders met my gaze. At first glance the room seemed much as it had when I'd left it.

Except for Sam.

The youngest Winchester was no longer safely asleep. He was on the floor, wedged somehow between the bed and dresser, long uncoordinated limbs half-tangled in the bedclothes that had come off the bed with him. Eyes wide and blinking and one arm up defensively, he looked panicked and not fully aware.

"Sam!" Dean dropped to his knees. His hands reached automatically for his brother, but pulled back a little when Sam flinched away. "Sammy?"

"Uh-uh... no... no... please don't..." The husky words hitched between stuttering breaths, but I could hear the terror that forced them out. Dean could hear it too; I saw the outstretched hands half-curl into fists. But his voice when he spoke was gentle.

"Hey... hey... it's okay. It's me, Sammy... it's Dean. Your awesome big brother."

The frightened litany stumbled to a halt.

"D-Dean?" Sam's hair had dried into unruly twirls that flopped across his face. Behind the chestnut strands his eyes blinked uncertainly.

"Yeah, Sam. It's me."

"_Dean..!_" Sam scrabbled free from the blankets and half-fell against his brother, left hand clutching hold of Dean's jacket. "Dean, you... you have to... Dean, please, don' let him... he's gonna –"

"It's okay, Sammy. It was just a dream, okay? Just a nightmare." Dean's hands gripped Sam's upper arms. "We're all good now, huh? You awake? It's okay now."

Well, it probably had been a dream that had wakened Sam. The Lord only knew he'd gone through enough in the last few days to trigger one. But I was fairly sure it wasn't the memory of that that was bothering Sam now. Because in this case, reality was more of a nightmare than any dream he could have had.

And Dean would have to accept that in order to help his brother.

As if in confirmation of my thoughts, Sam shook his head.

"No... no... Dean..."

"Sammy –"

"'S real, Dean... not a nightmare... he's gonna... he's gonna come... he's gonna find us and... and..." Thin fingers tightened their agitated grip on Dean's jacket. "H-he's gonna hurt me..."

It was almost imperceptible, but Dean seemed to stiffen.

"Who, Sammy? Who's gonna hurt you?" His gaze slid, as if he wanted to look at me.

Sam's breath caught, in what was close to a sob, and for the first time he looked up, hair falling back so we could see his face.

"D-Dad..."

I'd already seen the damage, the bruises and the blood, but the sight of that battered face was still jarring. I could only imagine what it was doing to Dean, and I wasn't really surprised when he pulled back, his hands releasing their grip on his brother. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"No! No – Sam, that's... no."

I don't think he'd intended his words to come out as harshly as they did. I think he'd somehow expected Sam to have changed his story, and the repetition, of what was as much a nightmare to him as it was to his brother, was chipping at his composure.

I think he hadn't realised until then how badly Sam had been beaten.

Hurt, traumatised and half-sick, Sam could only have heard the anger in his brother's voice. He shrank away, head ducking and shoulders hunching.

"I... I'm sorry, D-Dean, I... I don't..."

Dark blonde eyelashes flickered; when he spoke again, Dean's voice was quieter, although I could see the tension in taut muscles and clenched jaw.

"I'm not blaming you, Sammy, I just think you're... I think you're confused, and you're not remembering what really happened."

"Dean –"

Dean didn't even glance at me.

"You know... you _know_ Dad would never hurt you –"

Sam looked up then, and Dean's voice faltered.

"You weren't there, Dean... you didn't see him. It... it _was_ Dad, I'm _not_ confused... why would I... why w-would I m-make that up? Maybe you think... maybe you think b-because Dad and I fight all the time, I d-don't... I don't... love him, but... but I... h-he's my Dad, too, and I thought... I thought I w-was s-safe with him... but he just... he just kept h-hitting me, and... and... kicking me... and he... h-he tried to... to... stab me..." Sam was trembling violently now, chest heaving with ragged breaths. His hands twisted in the blankets.

Dean was almost as sickly white as Sam; his face wore the blank expression I'd long since realised hid extreme emotion. His right hand closed over Sam's left, pulling it free of the blankets and exposing the raw, bruised wrist.

"He... he t-tied me to the b-bed-post... after you... after you l-left... an' when you c-called he... h-he... g-gagged me so you... y-you w-wouldn't... I s-screamed b-but you d-didn't hear... for two d-days... y-you were g-gone a-and..."

"Sam –" Dean sounded strangled.

"You weren't there, Dean... you w-weren't there..." The stuttering voice broke down, became a wordless keen of anguish.

For an instant stunned hazel eyes met mine; for an instant I saw realisation, acknowledgement of the truth, and I saw that it was as shattering as I'd dreaded.

But I'd been right about something else, too. There was one role more important to Dean than son. And his own shock and grief came a poor second to Sam's. Devastated son gave way, forced down somewhere deep and secret where I doubted he'd be seen again, and big brother took his place, and in that moment I added another to the list of the sins of John Winchester. Dean was only nineteen. He should have been allowed to grieve, should have been allowed to deal with the horror that he was facing. He'd had to be the adult for his little brother since he was four, and yet again he was putting aside his own feelings to deal with Sam's. I knew why John had neglected the upbringing of his boys, and I sympathised with the insatiable desire for vengeance that drove him. But I couldn't approve of it.

"Sammy..." Dean's voice shook a little, indication of the supreme effort to subdue his own feelings, but there was only tenderness on his face.

Sam offered no resistance when Dean tugged his hand. He slumped forward, falling against his brother, and Dean pulled him in. His arms closed around his little brother.

"I'm here now, Sammy. I'm here now."

I caught a momentary glimpse of Sam's face, mouth quivering and eyes crumpling, before it was buried in Dean's shoulder. Dean's hand cradled his head, slid down to rub against the nape of his neck.

"It's okay... it's okay... you're safe now. H-he... no-one can hurt you now, Sammy – not while I'm here."

Sam hiccupped something between the sobs. He'd wormed his left arm free and now clutched at the back of Dean's shirt, fingers clinging to the fabric as if he somehow expected to be torn away from his brother at any moment.

"I know. I know. But I've got you now, you hear me? I'm not gonna let anything else happen to you. Shhh... shhh, Sammy... it's okay. It's okay." He pulled Sam more securely against him and bent his head low to murmur in his ear, and I backed silently out of the room, unseen by either boy.

~oooOOOooo~

The sky had cleared a little when I came back an hour later to check on them. Through the long window at the end of the hall moonlight cast watery shadows on the floor; dawn wasn't far off, but no lessening of the heavy darkness hinted at it.

I hadn't shut the door when I'd left, and from my own room I'd heard the soft mutter of Dean's voice, interspersed occasionally with something tremulous from Sam, for some time. But all was silence now, and as I approached I could see that the bedside lamp had been switched off, although the curtain had been drawn back a little, allowing some feeble illumination.

Both boys were on the bed now. Sam, at least, was asleep, if the heavy regularity of his congested breathing was to be trusted. He lay on his side under the bedclothes, a small huddle which belied those lengthy limbs. On the bed beside him Dean sat leaning against the headboard; Sam's face was pressed up against his leg, right arm thrown across Dean's lap.

I didn't doubt that Dean had checked my medical handiwork. The fingers of one hand curled loosely around Sam's wrist, just below the bandage. He was still, though, almost no movement about him; so still that I might have thought that he, too, was asleep, if I'd not seen the glimmer of open eyes.

And the slow movement of his other hand, stroking Sam's head. Movement that didn't falter, even when a tear broke free and left a betraying gleam of wetness that he made no attempt to wipe away.

I'd thought, earlier, that I'd not see that emotion again. I shouldn't have seen this. Sam had only given way to tears in front of his brother; Dean was far less open about his grief. His distress was deep and private and the more terrible for its silence, and I stepped back from the door and stood in the hall, staring hard at the squares of moonlight on the carpet and feeling the prickle of my own tears.

"Pastor Jim?"

I'd underestimated the hunter's instinct in Dean which would warn him of the presence of an intruder. His voice was quiet – in deference to his sleeping brother, no doubt – but that didn't disguise the gruffness that came of tears and an attempt to hide them.

"Dean." I also kept my voice low. He eyed me in the dimness as I went back into the room, his face guarded and a little defensive. He looked unsure; of how I was going to respond perhaps, to the tears that were not intended for witnesses, to the tenderness he'd shown his brother. To his earlier anger which had proven so tragically unfounded.

"How is he?"

His eyes flickered.

"Sleeping."

"And better now that you're here," I said gently. Dean's throat worked, and for a moment his hand stilled against Sam's tousled hair, but where the light caught his face I saw that some, at least, of the wariness had faded.

It wasn't just reassurance. Sam's sleep was quieter, less disturbed that it had been, his thin body more relaxed. I'd been worried about him, and I still was, but in some ways I was less concerned for him than I was for Dean. Sam had been through a terrible, traumatic experience, one which I was sadly aware couldn't fail to leave scars. But he wasn't alone. He had Dean, his protection and security, the one who loved him as much as any father could.

But Dean's security was gone. His unquestioning faith in his father was shattered, and for the worst possible reason.

"How're you?"

I wasn't surprised when Dean didn't answer. I heard the sigh of indrawn breath as he looked away from me, shifting a little on the bed. I hadn't really expected him to talk – Dean had never been one for sharing his emotions – but I didn't want him to think I was upset about earlier. Or, heaven forbid, that I cared less about him than about his brother.

In the tree outside a bird gave a tentative chirrup, and was silent. The night was almost over, although for those of us inside, the nightmare was just beginning. I was tired, exhausted even, but I knew sleep wouldn't help right then.

"I should have known something was wrong."

He still wasn't looking at me, and I said nothing.

"When he told me about that hunt... I should have known. He came back from the bar, had this whole story about a werewolf, and how he thought it was time I had a solo hunt, how he thought I'd been in this long enough to handle it on my own. I was so excited, you know? My own hunt, doing it myself... all I could think about was that he finally had that confidence in me. I didn't even think – I didn't even consider how strange it was, Dad giving me a hunt while he stayed behind with Sam. In fifteen years, he's never done that. But I was just... I was so..."

He breathed hard through his nose, and for an instant I saw his lip quiver before he dragged his hand roughly over his mouth.

"Sam didn't want me to go. He and Dad – they'd had this huge fight, and Sam didn't want to be left with him. He begged me to stay, but I just laughed at him. They're always fighting, yelling at each other, about stupid things most of the time, but it's never... it's never been anything like – _this_."

He shifted position sharply, involuntarily. The movement jarred through Sam, who whimpered in protest, and Dean blinked at the sound, brow creasing a little.

"Sorry, Sammy..." His hand dropped to where the too-big pyjama top had slid back from Sam's shoulder, exposing one collar bone and a stretch of vulnerable neck, and pulled the blankets more snugly round him. Sam pushed his face harder against Dean's leg, snuffling, and settled into sleep again.

"Sam said if I left, he and Dad would probably kill each other." Dean's voice was quieter than before, his face turned down towards his brother. "But I went anyway. I left him, and... and Dad did. Dad tried to kill him, Pastor Jim. I should have known... I should have noticed that something was wrong, but... I just left him."

"Dean, you can't blame yourself for this. You couldn't have guessed something like this would happen. It's not your fault, you hear me?"

"No. No. I should've known – I should've seen."

I leant forward slightly, wanting to reach out, knowing the gesture wouldn't be accepted. Dean's hand curled over the side of Sam's jaw and his thumb moved lightly where a bruise deepened the shadows. His head lifted, but not in my direction.

"Dad tried to kill Sammy..." It was almost a whisper, but the bewildered horror was audible.

I lowered myself into the nearer of the two chairs I kept there. Beneath me I could feel the sag of antiquated cushions, and for a brief instant I pictured my own father sitting there. It had been his chair before; I could remember leaning against his arm listening to him read aloud.

And I could remember John Winchester sitting there, Dean leaning against his arm and Sammy curled up in his lap.

"_I should have known something was wrong..."_

John had been reading, Dr. Seuss or some such thing, which Sam had loved and Dean had pretended to despise.

"_I didn't even consider how strange it was..."_

I could picture Sam, mouth puckered into an "O" as he followed the story, eyes wide and intent and more often on his father's face than on the pictures.

"_They're always fighting, yelling at each other..."_

And John's green eyes soft with love for his boys.

"_But it's never... it's never been anything like this."_

And I knew.

I'd been a pastor for too many years to deny that people were capable of horrific things. I'd seen nauseating evidence of the evil that humans could inflict on each other, and I wasn't naive enough to pretend that fathers didn't abuse their children, and that apparently pleasant people couldn't commit appalling crimes.

But now everything within me rose up in protest at the thought of this human committing this crime. John Winchester was a hard man, an obsessed man, a man whose life was dark and violent.

And he loved his sons with every fibre of his being.

He'd neglected them in his obsession, he'd hurt them unintentionally in his inability to see past his quest for vengeance. But he'd no more deliberately inflict harm on them than I would, and when this was over I'd spend some time kicking myself for seriously entertaining the idea that he might.

"_It's never been anything like this."_

I'd dealt with this literally dozens of times in my years of hunting, but when it came home I was too blind to see it.

"Dean."

Dean stirred, in that vague way of someone in the throes of emotional shock, and I raised my voice slightly.

"Dean, how long –"

I saw Dean stiffen before I heard it. The grating rumble of a truck engine, soft at first but growing rapidly louder, and Dean's head jerked round, to the window and then to me. His eyes were wide.

"It's Dad."

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_**Let me know what you think...**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**I know. It wasn't going to be a month. Oops. Real life just didn't calm down when I thought it would! Having learned my lesson, I'm not going to make any promises about when the next chapter will appear, but I hope it won't be as long again!**_

_**Thanks to everyone for the awesome response to the last chapter :-) I hope you all enjoy this one as much (leave a review and let me know!)**_

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The engine had stopped by the time I reached the window. There was something sinister in the silence; I knew the unpleasant chill of apprehension deep within as I pulled back the curtain.

Dean was right. I knew that truck, now parked up against the front steps of the church, and in the bleached light of early morning I could see the shadow of the man in the driver's seat, tall and bulky and still.

"Pastor Jim?"

"It's your father's truck," I answered carefully. "But Dean –" I paused. Below, the door of the truck was opened, forcefully, and the familiar figure emerged.

I'd always been impressed with the natural hunter's instincts displayed by John Winchester, the same lithe movements I'd observed in his son earlier that evening but even more well-developed. With the paucity of light, he was little more than a silhouette, and the impact of his behaviour was oddly heightened, every action exaggerated against the stillness of the surroundings.

And I knew that I had not been wrong. It was John down there, John's face and figure, John's expressions and posture. But there was _something_. Something indefinable, in the way he moved, the way he strode towards the church door with little concern for his surroundings. Something that was wrong.

Dean had straightened from where he'd been leaning against the headboard. Now, as I turned from the window, he slid one leg off the bed and reached for his jacket.

"Dean, I think you should stay here with Sam."

His face was bent down, shadowed; when I spoke he lifted his head.

"I'm going down." His voice was quiet, but the lack of expression was more telling than any dramatic display of emotion. There was something almost frightening about the blankness of his face: his gaze met mine for a moment, and then slid away. A muscle jerked in his jaw.

"Dean, your father –"

The early morning hush shattered abruptly.

The tension had all of us more alert than usual. I felt the sound contract through my muscles, and I saw Dean jerk sharply. For some reason I'd expected John to make a stealthy entrance; I'd expected to find him slipping silently through the hall, or waiting to ambush me in my living room. The vigorous assault on the old-fashioned church door knocker was something I'd not foreseen.

"Dean? Wh... what's going on?"

And more than anything, I'd hoped Sam would sleep through the inevitable confrontation.

"It's okay, Sam." Dean's response was automatic, but poised as he was on the edge of the bed, taut and watchful, the reassurance was hardly convincing. Sam's gaze darted to me, and I saw apprehension in the eye that wasn't swollen shut.

"What is it? Why –"

He startled violently as John hammered on the door again, and shot upright in the bed, a move which could not have been kind on cracked ribs. But there was only alarm on his face.

"Who's that? What's happening? Dean, what's going on?"

"Sam –"

I think Dean had also hoped Sam wouldn't wake. Frustration mingled with concern in his voice, and Sam, who knew his brother better than anyone, was not slow to realise the truth. Alarm gave way to wide-eyed fear.

"He's... he's here, isn't he? Dad? " His eyes flicked to the window, back to Dean, around the room, his shoulders hunching up in unconscious defence. "Dean, he's gonna... he's gonna... please don't let him..." A tremor had crept into his voice, and his hands clutched convulsively at the blankets.

"Hey! Hey, Sam. Just relax, okay? It's gonna be fine. We're... we'll sort it out." Dean's voice faltered a little on the last words.

"No, Dean, he's gonna find me, he's gonna hurt me –" The tremor wasn't just in Sam's voice now. Something ugly, something violent, flickered in Dean's eyes, but when he spoke his voice was gentle.

"No, he's not, Sammy. I'm not going to let him get you, you hear me? He can't hurt you while I'm around."

Dean must have spoken those words a hundred times before, about any number of monsters. There was something indescribably horrible in hearing them about his father. I couldn't imagine how Dean felt having to say them.

"B-but what're you going to do?"

Teeth closed on lower lip; Dean glanced at me, and for just a second I caught a glimpse of horror and fear and helplessness before hunter and big brother slid back into place.

"I'm going to fix this. Pastor Jim and I, we're going to... to sort it out. And you're going to stay here."

"You're going down?" Sam caught hold of Dean's sleeve, shaking fingers digging into his arm. "Dean, no, don't, what if he... what if he gets you? He'll... he'll hurt you too..."

Dean's mouth twisted.

"He won't, Sammy." He loosened Sam's grip on his arm, but I saw his fingers tighten briefly around his brother's before he laid the smaller hand back on the bed. "He... can't."

The last was almost a whisper; I don't think it was meant to be heard.

"_He can't hurt me worse than he already has..."_

In that moment's silence the crash of the door knocker was a violent reminder of the immediacy of the threat. Sam shrank down small in the bedclothes, a soft sound of fear escaping him, and Dean thrust sharply to his feet.

"Stay here, Sam."

"Dean..."

"Dean, wait." It was my turn to catch hold of his arm, and he paused in his stride towards the door and glanced at me impatiently.

"What is it?"

"Dean, I don't think that's your father."

I felt the muscles under my hand contract sharply. There'd been no time to break the news gently, and I saw his shock in the wave of colour that flooded his face and ebbed as swiftly. Behind me Sam's gasp was almost a whimper.

"What?"

"There's something wrong about this."

Dean's "You think?" was the essence of sarcasm, but I ignored it.

"Did you have salt lines up at the motel?"

Dean blinked, brows drawing down into a frown, and I read the dawning of understanding in the widening of his eyes.

"No. No, we didn't – we were hunting a beserker so Dad didn't think we'd need them."

"And he was at the bar for what, an hour?"

"At least." Dean's gaze on my face was intent, but for the first time that dreadful night the tight lines bracketing his mouth had relaxed a little, and a tentative hope lurked in his eyes. "You think –"

"I think he may be possessed."

Dean breathed out, hard, and looked away, rubbing his hand over his mouth and then through his hair. I saw him swallow.

"P-possessed?" It was Sam who answered me; his voice was small and tremulous. "Then... it wasn't... Dad?"

"No. I don't think it was." I spoke gently.

Sam stared at me, expression dazed. On the blanket his left hand curled, fingers sliding vaguely against the bandages that hid the knife wound on his other arm. His undamaged eye was wide and piteous.

"It wasn't Dad..." he repeated, almost inaudibly. "Dean..." Wetness swelled, overflowing onto bruised cheeks.

"Yeah." Dean had wept earlier, and if he did again it wouldn't be where anyone could see him. But his voice choked a little. "We're good, Sammy." He stepped back to the bed, dropped a hand to Sam's shoulder. Sam's breath hitched in what was close to a sob, and he leant against his brother, fingers lifting and hooking onto the hem of Dean's jacket.

For just a moment Dean's hand shifted to curl over the back of Sam's neck, pulling him closer, and I reflected wryly, and a little sadly, on the strangeness of a life in which being possessed was something to be relieved about.

~oooOOOooo~

I had no illusions when it came to demons and the things they could do. A possessed John Winchester was capable of far more terrible things, more dangerous things, than John himself. And yet, oddly enough, there was something much easier about opening the door to John possessed. This, I understood. This John was also a victim, almost as much as Sam, and I knew how to fight him – _it_ – and how to fix things.

I glanced at Dean as I reached for the bolt on the door. I don't know how many demons he'd faced before; there was wariness, a taut concentration, in his posture which suggested that this was a relatively unfamiliar enemy for him. No hunter – no successful hunter – underestimates his prey. But there was none of the tension that had hunched his shoulders since I'd broken the news to him, none of the darkness in his eyes.

This wasn't an ordinary hunt, not with an enemy that was wearing his father.

But it was a hunt.

He was facing an enemy that he could fight, rather than a father who had betrayed him.

I could feel the wariness tightening my own muscles as I drew back the bolt. Exactly what John – the thing in John – intended was unclear; that he'd knocked rather than bursting in suggested that he didn't intend to attack us right off. Then again, inducing a false sense of security was a time-honoured technique, even for the supernatural.

I motioned Dean back and opened the door.

"Jim."

Thick dark hair, tangled by rain; jutting stubbled jaw and grooves driven deep between nose and mouth; heavy brows low over shadowed eyes; nothing as he stood there hinted at the evil reality of what was within him.

I almost flinched as he reached for me, but it was only to grip my upper arm for a moment, and there was nothing malevolent in his expression of fatigue and fear.

"Jim, I need your help. Sam's... Sam's disappeared. I came back to the room and he was gone – place was in chaos. I've been searching for him since last evening, but there's no clue as to what took him. We dealt with the beserker – I had no idea there was anything else there, but... but Sammy's just... gone. Dean's off on a hunt, not answering his phone... I'm... the longer he's missing the less chance there is of finding him, and I don't... I'm running out of ideas." He moved past me into the church as he spoke, but his gaze was still on my face, his eyes grim and worried and disturbingly convincing.

For one ludicrous moment I was shaken with doubt.

"I have an idea for you."

I'd almost forgotten Dean's presence; from the way John jerked round to face him, it was obvious our visitor hadn't been aware of him either. Dean's lip curled a little, nostrils flaring.

"How about you cut the crap, and quit pretending to be something you're not."

"Dean!" Shock was in John's voice, and his expression, but whether it was at Dean's words or his presence was impossible to tell. To the demon – if demon there was – Dean's presence spelled the end of his little charade. But an unpossessed John would not have expected his elder son to be here, in my church. And he would certainly not have expected Dean's comment. John took a step towards his son, but paused when Dean recoiled in revulsion that was only too obvious.

"Dean, son, what's going on?" The shock was now mixed with reproach; a little anger and a little hurt; it was exactly as I'd have imagined John to react, and for just a second I saw a flicker of something like uncertainty in Dean's eyes. But it was gone just as fast, hidden in cold opaque green.

"You're not my father." Dean lifted his gaze in a deliberate gesture towards the ceiling. John's eyes followed their direction, and there was an instant's stillness as he took in the devil's trap painted on the ceiling above him. "We know what you are."

John lowered his head, slowly, so that he was facing Dean again, and even from the side view I had of him I could see the dramatic change in his demeanour. Gone was the haggard fear, the anger and reproach and hurt. His eyes narrowed slightly, and his mouth twitched in a half-smile that had nothing of John in it.

"Clever, clever." His hands dropped into his pockets and he rocked back on his heels. "No, really, Dean. I'm impressed. What gave it away, huh?"

Dean was holding my shotgun, barrel down; at this he raised it with the smooth competence of long experience.

"We're going to send your demonic ass back to hell for what you did to my brother. For what you made my dad do to my brother." He jerked his head in my direction without taking his eyes off the man in the trap. "Pastor Jim."

Some part of me noticed with wry amusement his peremptory tone, but there was no time to waste on wondering at what point he'd assumed command.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas..." The familiar Latin phrases required little thought. John's head flung round towards me, smile slipping. "Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii..."

"He had no idea what I was." Deeper now than before, forced, John's voice was all the more chilling. "He was so shocked when I turned on him. So bewildered! And then, so scared... you should have heard him scream, Dean."

"You shut your hole." Dean's voice sounded almost as strained as John's, and his fingers white-knuckled the shotgun.

"E-ergo draco maledicte..." My tongue slipped on the words. I should have expected this; no demon went easily. I edged towards Dean, still reciting.

"He screamed for you, you know. For his big brother to save him. But you weren't there. You weren't there to protect your precious little Sammy. And there was nothing he could do to stop daddy hurting him."

"You evil son of a bitch, I'm gonna –"

I threw my arm out across Dean's chest as he lunged forward, hearing the mockery in John's laughter, raising my voice over it in the last few words.

"Ut Ecclésiam tuam secúra tibi facias..."

Dean was fighting my hold, and the Latin came out more breathless than I'd intended.

"Servire libertate, te rogamus, audi nos."

I stumbled forward a step under the force of Dean's anger, but John's laughter had changed to a roar, head thrown back and eyes rolling white, and I felt the pressure against me ease sharply and heard the gasp of indrawn air. Then John dropped abruptly to his knees, head hanging, and there was silence.

"Is... is that it?" Dean's voice shook a little; he was whiter than usual when I glanced at him. "I thought... "

My arm was still across his chest, and I stiffened it when he made to step towards his father.

"Just hold on, Dean –"

I paused as the man on the floor stirred.

"John?"

And then he raised his head, and I felt Dean's fingers dig into my arm. John got to his feet, with none of the difficulty – the weakness – I'd have expected, and tilted his head with a pop of relieved joints. His upper lip lifted, a smile that bared his teeth.

"I was just messing with you." He glanced upwards at the devil's trap. "Pity about the ceiling – you needn't have disfigured it after all." He stepped with deliberation out of its reach, and dusted his hands on the fronts of his jeans. "I enjoyed the Latin, though. It might even have worked. If, you know, I'd been possessed."

Then the smile dropped away, and he leaned forward, his face spuriously grave.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I really am your father."

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_**So, let me know what you think...**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**So, here's the part where I apologise, AGAIN, for the slow update. New country... new job... bad case of Vanished Writing Self-Confidence... blame them all... Anyway. Here is the new chapter, and I hope it's worth the wait. Action and answers lie below! Thanks to everyone who reviewed, alerted or favourited on the last chapter – you guys make this whole writing thing even more rewarding!**_

_**Disclaimer: We all have our psychotic breaks... but no. Not mine.**_

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I'd thought, earlier, that nothing could be worse than discovering what John had done.

I'd been wrong.

This was infinitely worse. This cruel shattering of our hopes, this waking from a nightmare only to discover the horror of reality; for a moment we'd tasted the relief of a reasonable explanation, and the plunge back into the dread and despair of the night was all the more terrible by contrast.

"No. No." Dean was staring at his father, face sickly pale and chest heaving in sharp, shallow breaths. The shotgun dangled from lax fingers. "No... it... you..."

John tilted his head a little, gaze flicking to me and then back to his son.

"It really is me, Dean." A groove dented between his eyes, and he pressed his lips together for a moment. "I don't understand why you felt all this was necessary – why you thought I was possessed." One hand gestured. "You can see it's me, Dean. Jim. There's nothing wrong with me. What's going on?"

"What's... what's going on?" Dean swallowed thickly. "You tell me about how... about how Sam screamed... about how you hurt him... and then you ask me what's going _on_?"

John's eyes widened slightly.

"Oh... that." He sucked in a slow breath. "Of course, you understand I was playing up the possession side there – keeping in character. Personally I wouldn't take the pleasure in the situation that a demon would."

"The _pleasure_ –" Dean jerked forward against my arm again, and I shoved back. Whatever John had done, whatever was going on or was wrong with him, it wouldn't be solved by Dean attacking him.

"That's not the point." My anger, in contrast to Dean's, burned cold. "You assaulted Sam. However you felt about it – pleasure or not – you attacked your own son. You'll forgive us for assuming that you were not in control of your actions at the time."

John eyed me thoughtfully, brows a little lowered.

"No, I knew what I was doing. But –"

"You knew... you mean..." Dean's customary eloquence seemed to have deserted him. He'd stopped fighting my hold, for the moment, but I could hear the uneven jerk of his breathing, and could only guess at the emotions that must be seething within him. Whatever we'd faced the previous night, whatever we'd pictured, listening to John calmly discussing his behaviour was more appalling than we could have imagined.

"You're saying you attacked Sam, brutally injured him, entirely of your own volition." I swallowed back the involuntary tremor in my voice.

"There's no need to be dramatic about it, Jim. You use terms like that, it confuses matters. Gets everyone emotional." John was calm, patient almost, as if he was the rational one trying to explain his position. "This had to be done. It had to happen. Sam's had it coming for a long while, years, really –"

"The hell he has!" Mine wasn't the only voice that shook; horror quivered through Dean's words even as anger increased their volume. "Sam's done nothing –"

A flicker of something that might have been irritation darted across John's face.

"Dean, listen to me – that's just it. He's done nothing. He's always been half-hearted about the hunt. He's never cared like you and I have. He's too busy thinking about school, and grades, and soccer... he wastes his time doing homework, when he should be learning hunting skills. He should be researching, but he reads his schoolbooks. For years I've put up with it, for years I've been soft on him, but it's only getting worse. He resists me, and fights me, he flouts my authority... where's this going to end, Dean? What good are math and literature when he's facing demons? He screwed up on this last hunt because he paid me no attention. What's next - one of us is killed because he was doing his own thing? Well, I'm sorry, Dean, but I'm not waiting around until that happens. Sam needs to learn the truth. He needs to learn to be obedient, to follow orders without bucking my authority at every turn. I love Sam, I do, he's my son, but if he can't learn..."

In the brief silence as John paused, I heard Dean swallow.

"What?" His whisper was thick with strain. John sighed, mouth twisting a little.

"If he can't learn, Dean, he must be killed."

"You're insane." Dean's words hitched out in a breath that was close to a sob. "Dad – this isn't you talking."

John leant forward.

"This is me talking, Dean. This is your father. The one who watched his wife burn on the ceiling. Your mother died because of what we're hunting, Dean. My whole life – your whole life – is about finding the thing that did it, but Sam... Sam never really knew her. He didn't have to watch her die. He doesn't care about avenging her, even though she died because of him. Are you telling me that protecting him matters more to you than killing the son of a bitch that tortured your own mother?"

I felt Dean flinch at that, muscles jerking in instinctive repugnance. For a moment I wondered if he was right; there was something not quite sane about this conversation, about John's calm discussion of the need to kill his son.

"_John –_" I had no idea what to say. Nothing in my pastoral experience had equipped me for this. But John had already damaged his younger child; I was not going to stand by and do nothing while he inflicted emotional torture on his eldest.

John's gaze flicked towards me for an instant, but there was no change in his expression and he turned back to Dean almost immediately. Whether he'd even noticed me was debatable; that I was no threat was obvious.

"You've always been my good son, Dean, my obedient boy, but... Sam's your weakness. He's your blind spot. You haven't helped him, Dean. You've coddled him, and shielded him, and now he's ruined for this life. I could have made something of him, once, but he's been over-protected, and he's weak. He's been allowed to have his own way for too long, and there's nothing we can do with him now. He's never going to be whole-hearted about this life, about getting revenge. Not like you, Dean. Or me. He's going to hang around our necks – your neck – holding us back so we can't get on with what's important. This needs to be dealt with. I should have done it ages ago, but I'm not going to make that mistake any longer." He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, mouth drawn tight in weary regret. Then he pulled his shoulders back, fatigue giving way to resolution. "Where is he?"

I'd let my arm drop, but was still close enough to Dean to feel him stiffen. He straightened, mirroring John; I heard the uneven shudder of his breath, but there was nothing hesitant in his voice.

"I don't know."

John's eyes narrowed.

"I know he's here, Dean. I'll find him anyway, so you might as well tell me."

Dean said nothing, but his grip tightened perceptibly on the shotgun. John noticed; his gaze dropped to the weapon, and back to Dean's face.

"Dean, come on. You're letting emotion get in the way of judgment. You know what needs to be done." He paused, and sighed when there was no response from Dean. "You have to let me do this, son." He glanced over our shoulders, and then stepped around us and headed for the front of the church and the door that connected with the manse.

Spiking alarm lent me a speed I'd not realised I had, but Dean was still faster. He slid around to face John, heels slamming down on the carpet and hand thrust flat against his father's chest.

"You're not going near him." The words were quietly implacable.

"Get out of my way, Dean." Equally quiet, equally implacable; John had stopped, but his hand came up, fingers closing around his son's wrist.

"No." There was nothing subtle in the way Dean lifted the shotgun. "You want Sam, you'll have to go through me first."

John was silent for a moment. He glanced at me, and at the door that was his objective, before focusing on Dean again with an expression that was almost regretful.

"Alright then." He half-turned, shoulders slumped in apparent defeat.

I divined his intent a split-second before he moved, but my "_Dean!_" was too late. John swung back, and his fist swung with him in a lethal right cross that met its target with the dull crunch of flesh on flesh. Dean staggered, half-falling against the pew behind him.

John Winchester was, without question, the best fighter of my acquaintance. Much of that ability he'd passed on to his sons; I knew Dean could hold his own in a fist-fight, even when pitted against a bigger and stronger man than himself. But I'd seen what John had done to Sam, and I could see now that he was keeping nothing back.

I lunged forward, catching his shoulder and jerking him away from his son. Dean's lower lip was split and bleeding badly; one hand reached up to dab at his mouth, and he blinked at the blood on his fingers. Then he looked back at his father, his eyes wide and wary.

Muscles bunched under my grip, violence barely held in check. John's head turned sharply.

"Stay out of this, Jim."

"Not until you –"

I'd never been on the receiving end of John's fist before, and my first dazed thought was that he'd broken my jaw.

My second was of respect for Dean, who'd managed to stay at least partially upright. The pew had done little for me other than jab me painfully in the back as I went down.

Sprawling on the floor was highly undignified, but I had little attention to spare for embarrassment with John looming over me, green eyes intense. Whether he was planning to attack me again, or just to ensure that I didn't try to stop him, I had no idea. Behind him Dean pushed away from his own pew, brows drawing together.

I wasn't going to remain there, though, meekly waiting for John to make up his mind; I gathered the scattered fragments of my wits and lifted up on my elbows.

And promptly collapsed back.

Carrying Sam, colliding with the pew... my back had not been well-treated that night, and the vicious spasm of pain told me it was no longer planning to cooperate.

It had been a long time since I'd felt as ridiculously vulnerable as I did at that moment.

"I said, stay out of this." Whatever John was planning, his voice was threat enough. Dean heard it too, and this time it was his turn to lunge forward.

I was not too focused on his father to see the irony in Dean's coming to my rescue when my current predicament was the result of my attempt to help him.

Dean was younger than I, and in better physical shape, but even as his fist connected with the side of his father's face I knew that he stood a poor chance against the man. Dean had seen what John had done to Sam, had felt that violence himself, but two decades of love and respect – hero-worship – are not easily forgotten. Dean would fight to protect Sam, to protect me, but he was not going to attack his father the way he would any other enemy.

The way John was attacking him.

I saw the oldest Winchester rock back under the force, but he found his balance almost immediately, ducking under Dean's second jab and delivering a brutal hook of his own that swung his son half-round.

"I thought you were committed to the hunt, Dean. As committed as I am. I thought your mother meant more to you than this."

I was pretty sure the spasm of pain that crossed Dean's face had little to do with physical discomfort.

"I am, Dad, you know she does, but –" John's fist cut off whatever words would have followed, and this time Dean's stagger became a collapse. As he went down I made a desperate effort to rise, but my back had tightened up completely and I could barely move.

"_John_ –" My voice was only a gasp, anger and fear and pain, and John ignored it.

"You've got this blind spot, Dean, a Sam-sized blind spot, and until you get past it you'll never be as committed to this as you should be. Your mother deserves that for what she went through. She died because of Sam. And all you want to do is protect him." One booted foot slammed into Dean's side.

Dean jerked into a tight curl, breath escaping in a grunt of pain.

"Dad... please..."

"No!" John leant forward in a threatening crouch. "No begging, Dean. No more excuses. If you protect Sam, if you choose him over me, over your mother's memory, you're making yourself as bad as he is." He straightened up and kicked his son again. "And then you can expect the same treatment –"

"NO!"

John staggered, words dying in a hiss of pain. I saw blood begin to slip through the fingers he pressed to his head, and for an instant I couldn't see what had happened, what Dean had done to protect himself and fight off his attacker.

But Dean was still huddled barely conscious on the floor. And that shriek had been too high and hoarse for him, anyway.

Thin, battered, almost fragile in the too-big pyjamas, Sam was hardly the most intimidating adversary John had ever faced, and yet there was something almost formidable in the way he planted himself between his father and his fallen brother, heavy silver candelabra clutched in both hands and shoulders hunched forward in unmistakeable menace.

"You get away from him!"

Dean was solid muscle; Sam was small and thin; but they'd never seemed more alike than in that moment.

"Sam." I wasn't the only one aware of the threat. There was a flash of what might have been apprehension in John's eyes as he glanced at his son's weapon, but it was gone almost instantly and he took a step forward. "Put that down."

Sam's fingers tightened visibly on the candelabra.

"No!" His nostrils flared, breath coming quick and uneven. "Stay back – stay away from him, or I'll... I'll..."

"You'll what?" John dropped his chin, narrowed eyes assessing. "How're you going to stop me, Sam?" He moved closer.

"Take another step and I'll hit you!"

"Don't you raise your voice to me like that." John's voice was a growl, but he halted, obviously aware that Sam meant what he said. "Don't make this worse than it is, Sam."

"_Worse?_" The word cracked shrilly. "How could it... how could it possibly be worse?" Sam swallowed, eyes blinking rapidly, and I saw in the trembling mouth the fear that he was barely suppressing. In my concern for Dean, I'd momentarily forgotten that Sam had been John's first victim; the horror of facing his father, his attacker, had to be overwhelming.

On the floor behind him Dean stirred.

"Sam... get out of here..." He struggled up on one elbow, but fell back with a tight groan. "Sammy... don't..."

"Stay out of this, Dean." John's gaze flicked briefly to his older son, and back to Sam. "It isn't about you."

Eyebrows drew together over widened blue-green eyes. Sam's chin jutted forward, his nose twitching.

"What... what's that supposed to mean?" The words were belligerent. The quivering voice was not. "I... I don't understand, Dad. Why're you doing this?"

"It's not why I'm doing this, Sam." John's mouth curved for a moment in an unamused half-smile. He shook his head slowly. "It's why it took so long for me to do it. This should have happened years ago. I shouldn't have put up with the situation – with you – for so long."

"Wh-what?" Anger was fading, fear, horror, hurt swelling to take its place. "Dad, I... I don't..."

"Of course you don't. You're completely oblivious, caught up in your own selfish little 'me me me' world. That's the whole problem, Sam. And I'm sick of it. I'm tired of putting up with your complaints and your nagging and your pathetic weakness on the hunt. I thought I could train you to be a good hunter, I thought, maybe, you'd grow up and get over yourself, but I was wrong. You're useless, Sam. You're a burden to both of us."

"Dad, stop..." Dean struggled to rise, body hunching against the pain. I was pretty sure the torment on his face had nothing to do with physical suffering.

"You have no idea of the pain your mother endured. She died in agony because of you, Sam. Getting revenge should be your number one priority, but all you care about is school, and having a 'normal life'. Did your mother get a normal life? She was robbed of that. She was tortured to death, because of you. And you couldn't care less."

"No... Dad, please..." Sam was trembling visibly now, fingers loose on the candelabra that dangled forgotten in his grasp. "You know that's n-not... You know I...I don't..."

"All I know is that I made the wrong choice." John lunged forward, the action sudden and shocking, and caught hold of his son's wrist.

The candelabra fell; Sam's cry caught in his throat as his body twisted, involuntarily curling forward to relieve the pain of John's fingers digging viciously into the already injured arm. John jerked him forward so that they were face to face.

"I should have saved your mother and let you die."

Sam's mouth went slack.

"Dad..." A strangled whisper, breaking in the middle. Sam's undamaged eye was wide and anguished. "_No..._"

"For once in your life, Sam, do us all a favour and shut the hell up." And his closed fist slammed into his son's face.

Witnessing the fighting fury that was John Winchester when Dean was its target had been disturbing – alarming. Unleashed against Sam it was beyond horrific. Dean had barely kept to his feet; his smaller, slighter brother was knocked completely off his. I cringed at the heavy thud as his body hit the lectern.

"John!"

"Dad, _stop_ –"

Dean's voice and mine blurred together, higher pitched than usual, raised in fear and fury. I could see Sam where he'd slid down the lectern and fallen to the carpet, curled tightly over the arm he'd wrapped around his chest. The other arm lay flung out, pyjama sleeve ominously blotched with scarlet.

"Dad... please..." Sam looked very small and horribly vulnerable on the floor while John advanced on him. He sucked a terrified breath and seemed to shrink into himself. "Dean..."

_Help me... _

The desperate quivering plea dissolved into a whimper. John dropped to a crouch, and for an instant his gaze flashed to me before focusing on the trembling child at his feet.

"Don't you put this on your brother too." The brutal crack as his fist met Sam's face punctuated his words. "Every time, every time, Sam, you expect Dean to pick up the slack, to sort things out, to fix your screw-ups."

Sam had curled up even more tightly, breaths shallow and hitched. John loomed over him, wide shoulders adding grim emphasis to the threat, and pulled Sam onto his back and held him down. Sam's chin wobbled, but it was the silent tears that daggered through me. He'd fought his fear, had pushed aside his own terror and trauma to protect his brother, and for a few moments even his attacker had been intimidated.

But it wasn't enough. John was too big, and Sam was too damaged, and now John was going to finish what he'd started days ago.

John was going to kill Sam.

I forced myself up, and managed to get to my elbows. The pain was nauseating; the chill of sweat damped my collar and I blinked at the giddiness. I couldn't get up. I could _not_ get up.

John was going to kill Sam. Right there. In front of me, and his brother, and there was nothing we could do to stop it.

I found myself yelling, words that even to me made no sense, words to buy time until I was more mobile, or Dean was more conscious, or someone found us and stopped John...

"You're weak, Sam. You're weak and pathetic and useless." My shouts didn't deter John even for an instant. Large hands tightened around thin upper arms and he leant forward. "You're a burden to both of us, Sam."

Eyelashes, clumped into wet spikes, flickered over blue-green eyes. Sam's voice in that second of stillness was a broken whisper.

"Daddy..."

If there'd been anything left in John of fatherhood, of the love he'd once shown to his boys, it couldn't have failed to respond to the desolation in that word.

John's head dropped, and hope jolted wildly inside me as he seemed to relax his grip on Sam. He'd heard it. He'd felt... something... that was holding him back, something that wouldn't let him do this –

And then I caught a glimpse of his face as he glanced across at Dean, and the upward curve of that mouth was the most chilling thing I'd ever seen.

His voice, when he spoke, was almost gentle.

"I should have done this years ago."

His hands released Sam's arms, shifted up, and closed around his neck.

Bare feet scraped along the carpet as pyjama-clad legs flailed helplessly. Thin fingers clawed at the thicker ones that denied him air. Sam squirmed weakly in his father's grasp, but John held him down without apparent effort. Whether he could breathe at all, I had no idea; I could only hear myself, shouting, and any sounds he might have made were inaudible.

I could see, though, only too well. Enough to observe Sam's fingers slackening, and his legs sliding limply flat. Enough to see his eyes glazing. Enough to see them droop shut, while bluing lips mouthed one soundless word.

"_Dean..._"

John's palms pressed down harder.

"Dean can't help you this –"

Dean's inarticulate yell almost drowned out the thud as he collided with his father.

I hadn't even noticed that he'd moved. John had evidently been equally oblivious; his arms jerked wide, body thrown completely off balance, and they sprawled in an inelegant tangle on the ground. A good yard of carpet separated them from Sam, testimony to the force with which Dean had hurled himself at his father.

Whatever injuries Dean was carrying wouldn't have appreciated the new assault, but there was no hesitation in the way he rolled away and onto his knees, facing the older man. Behind him Sam shuddered convulsively, one hand pawing feebly at his throat. His chest heaved as stridulous gasps fought through his gaping mouth. Dean didn't take his eyes from John, now struggling to a kneeling position, but his voice shook a little when he spoke.

"You okay, Sam? Sammy? Can you hear me?"

Sam didn't answer. His eyes were flickering, though, and the alarming purple shade had faded a little from his lips. One arm reached out limply and flopped against Dean's ankle in strengthless reassurance.

"Dean –" John's gaze flicked between his sons, and Dean shifted to put himself more completely between Sam and his erstwhile assailant.

"Stay the hell away from my brother, you son of a bitch."

John leaned forward slightly, muscles taut and poised for attack.

"Is that any way to talk to your father, Dean?"

Dean stared at him for a long moment, and swallowed. When he spoke his voice was hoarse.

"You're not my father."

John's eyes narrowed. His lips thinned, the grooves deepening beside his mouth in a wholly unamused smile.

"Dean –"

"No!" The word was a snarl. "You tried to kill Sammy – you talked about how you should have let him die... As far as I'm concerned, you're no longer part of this family." He paused, and his eyes were suddenly deadly. "And if you come near my brother again, I swear to God, I'll kill you."

"You won't have to."

I thought it was John who'd spoken. But the voice had come from the back of the church.

And John swung round with eyes that were wide and startled. Eyes that widened further when two shots exploded the morning stillness. Eyes that stared in horror as his body jerked backwards and hit the ground, that blinked once and then gazed without sight at the ceiling.

Eyes that even in death were a telltale silver-blue.

My own gaze flicked from the body to Dean, who'd thrown himself into a protective curve over Sam and whose face looked as stunned as mine; to Sam, who blinked dazedly from under Dean's arm and who seemed only half-aware of what had happened; and to the back of the church, to the man in jeans and a filthy once-white t-shirt, the man with one eye swollen shut and a bloody gash over his left ear.

The man who'd just saved his sons.

The real John Winchester.

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_**I'd love to know what you think...**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**So... um... yes. Three months *cough*. Sorry about that. You can blame my sister and my shiny new brother-in-law for providing a large distraction from writing over the last while! On the other hand, thanks to everyone who prodded me about this chapter, particularly **_**doyleshuny**_** who sent me several very sweet PMs (never feel guilty about poking me for an update – I really appreciate it!) I must also thank **_**SunnyZim**_** for guilting me into finishing this... what are best friends for, after all?**_

_**And, of course, thanks to everyone who reviewed, alerted and favourited on the previous chapter. Your enthusiasm is incredibly heartening :-D**_

_**And now, on with chapter 6. There should be one more chapter after this one.**_

_**Oh, apart from the disclaimer: do I really need to say it?**_

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"How's he doing?"

For a moment, hearing the heaviness of booted feet approaching the living room, I'd been unsure whether it was Dean or John who'd walk through the door, and I was a little ashamed at the relief I felt when the younger man appeared.

Ashamed because I'd seen the horror on John's face as he took in what the shifter had done, the pain in his eyes as he'd reached out to his sons, and the pain of a different kind as Sam recoiled violently and even Dean flinched back.

Ashamed because it wasn't John's fault – none of this was – and he was almost as much a victim as the rest of us, and yet something inside me, something involuntary and visceral, couldn't forget the sight of John's hands wrapped around his son's neck, and the sound of the cruel words John's mouth had spoken.

Dean's gaze focused on me where I lay on the sofa. I guessed he wasn't even aware of the way he'd flicked a glance around the room, or the tiny relaxation of his shoulders when he saw we were alone. He pulled his hand down over his face, and then ran his fingers through his hair.

"He's okay, I guess. He's asleep now – those painkillers knocked him out." He ran his tongue cautiously over the scabbed split in his lower lip. "His arm's pretty messed up, though. The... uh... the wound opened up again, and I think it might be infected."

My mind threw up an image, of thick fingers digging into Sam's arm, the fear and pain on his face.

"We'll need to keep an eye on that, maybe get him a course of antibiotics." I cleared my throat. "How's his breathing?"

"His neck's badly bruised, and he said his throat hurt, but he wasn't struggling to breathe." Dean sucked in a breath of his own, and pain wrinkled for an instant around his eyes. His usual springiness was absent as he reached the other sofa and lowered himself to the seat.

"How're you doing?"

Long lashes flicked in my direction, and then away.

"I'm fine." The words were abrupt. He stood up quickly and walked across to the window, and one hand gripped the tie of the curtain, twisting it around his fingers.

I tilted my head to watch him, although his back was to me, his face turned away. I had a good idea of the bruises that were hidden by the familiar leather jacket, but I knew the rigidity of his posture was only partly due to his injuries.

"Dean –"

"I said I'm fine." He didn't turn, and his voice was clipped, almost rude.

A movement in my peripheral vision brought my gaze sharply round. John was standing in the doorway, his hand resting on the frame.

"Watch your tone, Dean." It was a mild rebuke, nothing but weariness in his voice, but Dean, who'd clearly been unaware of his father's arrival, flinched perceptibly as he swung round, and the meagre colour in his face faded a little.

"Dad!" He released the curtain tie and cleared his throat. "You... uh... you got rid of the body?"

"Yeah." John didn't elaborate. Fine lines deepened around his eyes and his hand dropped from the doorframe. "Shifter's gone."

I could see the effects of the last few days in his step as he came into the room, the heaviness in his usual purposeful stride. I still didn't know the story, how he'd fallen victim to the shifter, how he'd managed to find his sons – just in time – but the damage to his face was visible evidence that it hadn't been pleasant. And then he'd arrived in time to see the monster threatening his boys, and had had to kill it, all while that monster wore his face.

John Winchester was tough. He dealt with nightmares on a daily basis. But this? This was a nightmare he'd never faced before, and in all honesty I wasn't convinced he was equipped to deal with it.

He glanced at me, brows lowering for an instant.

"How's the back, Jim?" More matter of fact than sympathetic; John had never been good at expressing his emotions verbally. If I'd wanted words of solicitude, I'd have been disappointed. But I knew he was concerned. I'd felt it in the caution with which he'd helped me to the sofa, in the thorough care he'd shown in providing icepacks and anti-inflammatories and painkillers.

"Better than it was, definitely – it should be fine with a few days of Advil." I shifted cautiously on the sofa, and managed to suppress a wince; muted the pain may have been in comparison to the agony of earlier, but sullen muscles still protested any movement.

Heavy brows dipped briefly over green eyes, and I knew John had seen through my pretence, but he didn't force the issue. His gaze went to Dean, still standing stiffly by the window.

"Where's Sam?"

"He's in bed, Dad. He's asleep now."

John nodded once. I couldn't decide if it was disappointment or relief that tightened the muscles around his eyes. He cleared his throat.

"Dean, how is he?"

Dean shifted his weight, and his eyes dropped. One hand slid roughly over his mouth.

"He... he'll be okay, Dad –"

"How is he now?" John's voice cut across his son's, and I saw Dean flinch. John noticed it too; on a gentler man his expression might have been compunction. He rubbed his neck, shoulders rising and falling once in a heavy breath.

"Is he... is he alright, Dean?"

Dean's tongue briefly emerged to dampen dry lips, a sure sign that he was uncomfortable.

"He's pretty... battered, Dad. The shifter did a real number on him. He'll be okay, though. He will. He just needs to... he's just a little stressed. He just needs some time."

John was silent for a long moment, eyes intent on his son. I thought he might press Dean for more information, and prayed that he wouldn't; there'd be time enough, goodness knew, to deal with everything that had happened. Dean, suffering himself at this point from the after-effects of the morning's trauma, did not need a John Winchester interrogation.

My feelings must have shown in my face as he glanced at me. He swallowed, once, and nodded briefly before taking the couple of steps that closed the distance between himself and his son.

Dean straightened. Shoulders squared and chin came up as he faced his father, a military stance he'd learned from John himself and which sent tendrils of uneasiness curling through me. John, whose views on parenting differed so drastically from my own, could too easily damage his son irreparably now, could too easily reproach where he should comfort and praise. For all Dean was not a talker, the wrong words from John, on top of what the shifter had said, would break him.

But John had seen something of what the shifter had done, had experienced enough of it himself. He was tough, he was hardened, but he was a father, and even if his actions often seemed to contradict it, the truth was that he loved his boys above everything.

One hand came up to cup Dean's jaw, turning his head a little to expose the scrape below his eye. His eyes narrowed, but the anger was not towards Dean; there was only tenderness in the movement of his thumb over his son's bruised cheek, a tenderness which I seldom saw him display.

Dean's eyes widened a little, but he didn't take his gaze from his father's face.

"You hurt anywhere else?"

"Just ribs, really."

"Broken?"

"Maybe cracked, but I think just bruised. Shifter got a couple of good kicks in." This was familiar territory for Dean, the standard post-hunt Winchester injury inventory, and he answered without hesitation or undue emotion.

It was John on whose face I saw the emotion, who broke eye contact with his son while his jaw clenched.

"Son of a ..." He bit off the words, under his breath. Dean's eyes flickered.

"I'm okay, Dad."

The minatory darkness of John's expression faded a little as his gaze returned to his son. He scrutinised the younger man's face, and his mouth twisted in a smile that was more sorrow than pleasure.

"I know." His hand slid to Dean's shoulder, gripping it hard. "I know you are."

Dean's hesitation was brief enough to be almost undetectable, but some of the tension drained from taut muscles and he nodded a little. One hand came up to curl around his father's wrist. This was probably the only physical reassurance John was going to give his boy, the full extent of the comfort Dean would be getting from his father, even though I could see in his tight-lipped half-smile that it wasn't enough.

Dean was not okay, not okay in a whole host of ways.

John really knew very little about what had happened. I couldn't blame him for that. But his lack of awareness of his son's emotional discomfort disturbed me. Dean deserved more from his father, needed more. But this was more affection than John almost ever showed him. He was probably already telling himself to "suck it up" – his expression, not mine – to move on, to deal with it as he always did, not to expect more than John could give.

I wanted to say something then, explain something of the night's events. Rightly or wrongly, I wanted to shock John into grasping something of what his boys had been through. But John had never taken kindly to interference in his parenting methods. More to the point, he'd never listened.

I saw Dean's fingers tighten their grip momentarily, and then they fell away from John's arm. He cleared his throat, brows dipping in a quick frown.

"Let me take a look at that cut, Dad. You might need stitches."

And that was Dean's way of dealing: to take care of the ones he loved.

~oooOOOooo~

The storms of the night had given way to watery sunlight. Through my top window I could see the washed-out pale blue of the late afternoon sky; the weather seemed almost as exhausted as we were.

The present quiet was a strange contrast to the drama of earlier. Sam hadn't woken. Exhaustion, fever, perhaps a mild concussion, kept him curled on his side, his breathing congested but heavy and regular, and battered face half-buried in his pillow. John had insisted on sitting with Sam, and as far as I knew he was there still.

Both Dean and I had tried to convince him otherwise.

John, despite Dean's expert ministrations, looked almost as bad as his son: weariness lined his face, marking it with shadows almost as deep as the real bruises the shifter had left. I knew little of what had happened to him before he'd arrived at my church, but monsters were not known for gentle treatment of their victims. He needed pain killers, a good meal and a long sleep. We'd only been able to persuade him to accept the first two.

And Dean, although he didn't admit it, wasn't comfortable having John watching Sam.

I don't think he distrusted John. His father's reactions to what had happened – or to the little he knew of what had happened – could only have convinced him that John was horrified by the situation, that he wanted to take care of Sam and comfort him.

But Sam hadn't seen that. Sam, who'd been less than fully aware when John had arrived, who'd been put back to bed by his brother, who'd been asleep when John and Dean met up downstairs, was still sick and traumatised by what his "father" had done. Dean didn't want John's face to be the first thing Sam saw when he woke.

I straightened gingerly in my recliner, rolling my shoulders gently. The heavy throb of over-strained muscles was bearable now, only an echo of the agony of earlier. I'd even managed to climb the stairs, although I knew I'd be stiff and shuffling for the next week at least. On the little table nearby John had left a glass of water and what remained of the Advil, and I reached awkwardly across to pick up the blister pack.

And promptly dropped it.

The scream from down the hall was no less terrified for its hoarseness. I knew a bizarre sense of déjà vu to the previous evening, and I found that stiff muscles were no match for alarm, my back's protests barely registering in the rush of needing to move, and fast. I'd feared, last night, that John had somehow found his way into Sam's room, had attacked him, but this time –

John.

One look at the scene in my guest room, and I knew that Dean had been right.

Sam was still on the bed, but no longer heavily asleep as he had been. Wedged into the corner of the wall and headboard, arms curled defensively over his head, he cowered away from the looming figure of his father. I couldn't see his face, ducked down as it was behind tightly pulled-up knees, but the broken whimpers were horribly audible.

"No... no, _please_..."

John was on his feet, leaning forward across the bed. I caught a glimpse of his face, undamaged eye wide and worried, as he reached for his son.

"Sammy –" His hand closed over Sam's shoulder, and I saw the shock vibrate through him when Sam jerked away violently, almost falling in his desperation to escape.

"No!" The shriek of panic cracked into frightened sobs. "Stay... get away from me! L-leave me alone! Dean!" He scrabbled at the blankets twisted around him. "Dean!" His injured arm took his weight as he fought to get away, and he collapsed onto his side. "P-please..."

"Sam, it's okay! You're safe, it's me. It's Dad." John's outstretched hands flexed as if wanting to fist and then thinking better of it. "Son, just calm down, it was just a nightmare, it was just a dream, okay?" He lowered himself to sit on the bed. "Sammy, listen –" His words broke off with a grunt of pain as Sam's frantic swinging fist caught him in the ribs. "Sam!"

"Dad, get back!"

Caught up in the moment, I hadn't thought to wonder where Dean was. Now, as he pushed past me, wet hair and the lack of a shirt told their own story. He caught his father's arm and pulled him away from the bed.

"He needs space!" Dean's voice was perilously close to a snap, a tone I'd never heard from him directed at his father. Only his brother's distress could have induced its use now. I saw the quick frown draw John's brows down, but he didn't resist, moving away and letting Dean take his place.

"Sam." Dean spoke gently now in stark contrast to before, although the disquiet was evident on his face. "Sammy, it's me. It's okay." He'd shifted to beside the bed, partially blocking John from Sam's view. "Look at me, Sammy – you're okay. You hear me? Everything's fine." The bed dipped under his weight as he sat. One hand reached, hovered for an instant, and then dropped lightly on his brother's arm. "C'mon, dude..."

Sam shied away from his touch, pulling his arm over his face, but Dean didn't let go.

"C'mon, Sam, just look at me. You're safe, I promise."

"D-Dean?" The shielding arm dropped a little, as if he couldn't quite accept what he was being told. "Dean..." His breath hitched, catching on the word. Even from where I stood I could see the violent trembling of the rigid body huddled on the bed. "Dean, it... you..."

Dean slid more completely onto the bed and reached for his brother. His hands curled around Sam's upper arms.

"You're okay, Sam, you hear me? Everything's okay."

Sam blinked rapidly. His mouth worked, confusion grooving deep lines of distress in cheeks and forehead, but for the first time his gaze focused on his brother's face.

"Dean?" One quivering hand found Dean's leg, twisted three fingers into a wrinkle of denim. "I-I... I don't... where..." He swallowed, painfully if the full body wince was anything to go by. "Dean... D-Dad... I thought..." His voice dropped a little, but dying dread was still audible in the husky syllables. "I... I dreamt Dad c-came... he... he was s-standing right there... he tried... he was g-gonna..."

I felt John move beside me, a sharp jerk accompanied by harshly indrawn breath, but whatever he might have said or done I never discovered. Drawn by the unexpected movement, perhaps, Sam's gaze shifted from Dean and found his father.

"Dean!" The gasp shuddered into a whimper. Wet eyes, huge with fear, regarded John for one paralysed moment before Sam threw himself at the refuge that was his big brother, burying his face in Dean's shoulder and clutching at him with terrified fingers. "Dean... he... D-Dad... don' let him... he's gonna hurt me, Dean, don't let him hurt me..."

I saw Dean wince at the sudden assault against his painful ribs, but there was no hesitation in the arms that closed around his little brother.

"Sam. Hey hey hey - Sam! Listen to me, it's okay. It's alright. It wasn't Dad, Sammy, it was a shifter that... that did all that stuff. You hear me? It wasn't Dad. Shifter's dead, Dad killed it. You're safe now, no-one's gonna hurt you." Dean moved his hands up to grip Sam's shoulders, trying to pull him away a little to see his face, but Sam mewled an inarticulate protest and pushed himself more tightly against his brother.

"No... no... Dean, please..." Sam seemed to shrink, as if trying to hide himself from his father, and his hands pawed at Dean's back. "He's gonna... don' let him... _please_..."

"Okay. Okay, shhh, now, Sammy. You're fine, you're safe, I've got you. Listen to me now, listen to me, there's nothing to worry about, you hear me, dude?" Dean glanced up at us for a moment, and his jaw shifted as though his teeth were clenched.

I'd heard Dean, on previous occasions, teasing Sam about being emotional, about showing his feelings, about being an "emo girl". The truth was, though, that Sam was strong. He'd faced things that few boys of his age could dream of, and he handled them and moved on without apparently breaking under the emotional strain.

I'd never seen him like this. I'd never seen him so traumatised, so nakedly terrified. Not for years had he broken down and clung to Dean in fear. The fever which flushed his cheeks was undoubtedly playing a role in bringing his guard down, but it was horrible and frankly alarming to see him in such a state.

Beside me John moved uneasily, and I heard him clear his throat.

"I... he was asleep, and he started moving around, making these noises – he was having a nightmare, I think, and I wanted to wake him. He saw me and completely panicked."

"I suppose he thought, when he woke and saw you, that you were the shifter," I said carefully.

Dean looked at his father, his gaze undecipherable, but the flow of reassurances didn't stop. One hand rubbed his little brother's back, the same soothing motion he'd perfected when he was four.

"Sammy, listen to me – it wasn't Dad, okay? It was a shifter all along. It was the shifter that attacked you, not Dad. Dad killed it. It's gone, Sammy, it can't hurt you again. You're safe, you hear me? That's Dad over there, he's... he's not gonna hurt you. He'd never... he'd..." Dean's voice faltered, and I saw him swallow. His eyes dropped from John's face.

John, poor emotional intuition notwithstanding, saw it also. His "Dean?" was a caught breath of confusion. I thought I heard hurt in there, too.

The flicker of emotion crossed Dean's face too quickly to be identified, but his mouth twisted as he cleared his throat.

"You know Dad would never hurt you, Sammy." There was something a little too determined about his voice. "You know he loves you. It was the shifter that did all those things. Sam – you know you can trust me on this. C'mon, bro, just calm down and listen to me."

Sam was quiet for a few hitched breaths. Then he turned his head a little on Dean's shoulder.

"Sh-shifter?" It was almost a whisper.

"Yeah, dude, that's what I'm telling you. Pastor Jim thought it was a demon, remember? He was wrong about the demon, but he was right in saying it wasn't Dad. It was Dad that came and killed the sonofabitch."

"It... it wasn't Dad?" Sam lifted his face. Wet spiked lashes flickered over wary eyes as he peered in our direction.

"No."

"It wasn't Dad..." For the first time, he made deliberate eye contact with John. The terror had receded, but he licked his lips cautiously, expression watchful. "D-Dad?"

"Sammy." John's sigh this time was of relief. I was watching the boys, but the smile was audible in his voice, and Sam's mouth curved tentatively in response. "It's me, Sam. I promise. It's all me." He took a step forward and reached for his son.

Sam's flinch was too obvious to be ignored. His uneasy smile froze, his eyes crinkling in distress, and his shoulders hunched defensively.

John stopped dead, hand still outstretched.

"Sammy?" Confusion had deepened into bewilderment, and this time the hurt was undeniable. His arm dropped limply to his side. "What..."

My eyes met Dean's.

"I think Sam's still not feeling too good." I put my hand on John's shoulder, and for once he didn't shift away from the touch. "A fever makes everything worse – makes it harder to take things in. Let's give the boys some space. You could probably do with a shower and sleep, anyway."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're probably right." Subdued was not a tone often heard in John Winchester's voice. I was pretty sure he hadn't fully accepted my explanation, but he didn't resist the suggestion. I saw him glance from Sam to Dean as he turned, though, and the puzzled hurt on his face awoke a sad uncertainty in me.

It was easy to forget, minute by minute, that John had not been present for most of what had happened to Sam. He'd not seen the shifter attack his sons, and he'd heard none of the brutal words the monster had thrown at them. It wasn't surprising that he didn't fully understand Sam's fear.

But I'd encountered shape-shifters before. And I knew, as well as Dean and Sam did, how shifters downloaded the memories, the feelings, of their alter egos. I knew that John would never dream of actually killing Sam; despite all the fighting, there was no doubt that John loved his youngest.

But the resentment... the blame for Mary's death... the frustration at Sam's apparent lack of commitment to the hunt...

How much of what the shifter had said was really in John's mind?

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_**Let me know what you think...**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Oh happy day! I don't think I've ever had a fic that fought me as much as this one did... hence the endless waits between updates! Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, and alerted and favourited – I think without the wonderful encouragement I would have been very tempted to throw in the towel with it. I hope you all enjoy this final instalment, and that it's worth the wait.**_

_**BTW, a couple of people sent lovely reviews but I couldn't reply to them – the site has changed things around, so if you didn't get a reply from me and you were logged in, you have your private message function disabled. Please know that I really appreciated the reviews!**_

_**Disclaimer: Do I really have to spell it out?**_

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"Have some more potato, Sam." Without waiting for Sam's headshake, Dean scooped a generous portion of the fluffy mash onto his brother's plate.

"Dean..." Sam's protest held little strength, but he didn't make a move towards the new food. His fork speared a slice of tomato and he shifted it on the plate without enthusiasm.

"More chicken, Sam?" I didn't think he'd want it any more than he'd wanted the potato, although the Lord knew he could do with eating more, but saying anything was better than the long awkward silences into which our mealtimes inevitably descended these days.

Sam shook his head again, fork still pushing the tomato around, and I caught Dean's eye across the table.

I'd hoped that time would lessen the effects of the trauma Sam had experienced, that physical recovery from his injuries and illness would promote emotional healing from the damage that the shifter's words and actions had caused. Four days on, his fever had gone and the bruises were a spectacular wash of purples and blues. He was still moving cautiously – all of us were – but the infection in his arm was well under control. Physically he was recuperating fine.

But he was no closer to emotional recovery than he'd been immediately after the attack. He was withdrawn, far quieter than usual, eating too little for his age and size. Night after night I was woken by sounds of distress from the room the boys were sharing, and I knew from Dean's occasional comments that Sam was reliving his experiences in vicious nightmares.

And his relationship with John was about as strained as I'd ever seen it.

I'd grown used to the conflict between the two of them, the arguments, the yelling, the sullen silences and slammed doors. They were too similar, and both too focused on diametrically opposed goals, to live together harmoniously. But this was new. Sam wasn't arguing. He wasn't sulking or slamming around, and John was not yelling. If anything, they were both overly polite and careful with each other.

More than once I'd found John outside the boys' room, listening to Sam's tears and Dean's attempts at reassurance, but he never went in. I'd even suggested, on one occasion, that it might help them both if he did go and try to comfort his younger son. John's face had twisted into a grim caricature of a smile, and he'd stared at me for a moment. Then he'd muttered something and stalked back to his own room.

Before, I'd have said that his reluctance was because he knew Dean was better than he at soothing Sam, because emotional support was not his forte. Now... now I couldn't help wondering if, after all, he didn't really care as much as I'd always imagined.

And apart from anything else, it was more than likely that Sam would reject his father's attempts.

The frantic terror of their first meeting had subsided, but there was no denying that Sam was visibly uncomfortable in John's presence. He was polite – too polite – but monosyllabic in their conversations. Several times he'd hurriedly left a room when the alternative was being alone with his father in it, and his shifts in Dean's direction when John approached were as unsubtle as they were uneasy.

I'd hoped I was wrong about John, that I'd misjudged him and that the vitriol that had come from the shifter's mouth had nothing to do with what was in the real John's head. Perhaps even more I'd hoped that Sam wouldn't come to the same conclusions to which I'd jumped, and that once his initial skittishness had subsided, once his recovery from the physical trauma was well underway, he'd re-establish his normal relationship with his father. I'd hoped that it would occur to neither Sam nor Dean to wonder whether John really felt those things.

But in Sam's behaviour I could see that my hopes had been groundless.

"Are you going to eat that or play with it, Sam?" John smiled as he said it, but there was strain underlying his attempt to lighten the atmosphere. Whatever he thought, he was aware of the tension in his younger son, and I could see that it disturbed him.

Sam cringed, his fork jarring against his plate, and his gaze darted to his father, then back down again. He said nothing, but the rapidity with which he lifted the food to his mouth and began to chew was more telling than any words.

John saw it too; his smile stiffened, and then dropped away as he cleared his throat. Across from me Dean shifted uneasily in his chair.

"Dad, I was wondering –"

"Would anyone –"

Dean and I spoke simultaneously, hurriedly. In the instant of confusion that followed I saw the flicker of wry awareness in John's eyes, but he said nothing, reaching instead for the plate of chicken.

I coughed.

"Sorry, Dean. Would anyone like coffee?"

Sam dropped his fork.

"I'll make it." He pushed back his chair, springing to his feet without giving me a chance to reply and heading for the grinder. Even from where we sat the rigidity of curved shoulders, the tension in that thin back, was painfully obvious.

I saw John glance at his younger son's plate, at the almost untouched dinner, but when he spoke there was nothing in his voice to betray what he felt.

"You wanted to ask me something, Dean?"

It was Dean's turn to startle.

"Oh, I... uh... I just... have you heard from Bobby lately?"

Dark eyebrows lifted quizzically. It was a poor excuse; John knew it as much as did Dean. He couldn't have helped but see Dean's flinch, either. The muscles around his jaw bunched.

"No. No, I haven't, actually, not since that poltergeist situation. Why do you ask?" John's voice was even. Two pairs of green eyes met, and Dean straightened, chin dropping a little. He flicked his tongue over his lower lip.

"Just... wondering how he's doing."

John nodded, one short jerk of the head, and broke eye contact. He helped himself to more potato, and his movements were deliberate as he lifted a forkful to his mouth.

Dean blinked, slow, and let out a long breath. Across the kitchen Sam's gaze flicked between his father and brother. I saw him swallow, and the hands that carried the coffee plunger to the table were not completely steady.

The scrape of John's fork against his plate seemed unnaturally loud. I'd always been good at diffusing a situation, at the diplomatic comment in a fraught conversation, but right then I had no idea what to say. Dean had given up any pretence of eating now, and his head was down, eyes examining the tilt of his hand as his fingers drummed silently against the table.

"Pastor Jim..." Sam's smile was stiff with misery as he handed me a mug. He ducked his head at my murmured thanks; I think I was the only one who heard the quiver of his indrawn breath.

"D-Dad?"

Sam leaned across to put another mug in front of John. His hand was still wrapped around it when John reached out, and their fingers collided.

Sam flinched, a whole-body recoil as if John's hand had been a live wire, and his hand jerked back involuntarily. The mug slipped from his grasp, hit the table and smashed, sending shards of pottery and hot coffee in all directions.

Chairs screeched on the tiles as we all pushed back from the table. John, whose outstretched hand had been liberally doused with the scalding liquid, shot to his feet, hissing with pain.

"Son of a...!" He flicked his wrist sharply, fingers snapping against each other, pulled his hand in closer to examine it. "Damn it, Sam!" His gaze lifted from the already-blistering flesh to focus on his younger son.

Wide blue-green eyes blinked rapidly, scrutinising the chaos of spilled coffee and then skittering upwards. Distress crumpled Sam's face as he found his father's glare.

"I... uh... I'm sorry..." His voice trembled between accelerating breaths. "I-I... I didn't mean to..." He reached out uncertainly, one quivering hand dipping towards the wreckage as if to clear it away, and then jerked back with an audible gulp as John pushed his hand away.

"You want to burn yourself too?" The words were concerned. The tone was pure impatience. "What the hell, Sam?" He looked away, shook his head slightly, returned his gaze to his son. "What's wrong with you? You act like I'm about to attack you, you freak out just because I touched you... I know what the shifter did, but it wasn't me, you know it wasn't me. You know I'd never do that to you. I don't understand why you can't get past this. You need to pull yourself together –"

"_Dad_." Dean's voice cracked across his father's. He was on his feet now, frowning heavily. "It's not... Don't do this now."

At some stage during John's tirade I'd also risen. Silenced, John glanced from Dean to me, and then across to where Sam had slumped into his chair, head down. Dark tassels of hair hid his eyes, but the hunched shoulders, the shaking fingers picking at the sleeve of his hoodie, were clue enough to his emotional state.

"I'm sorry... 'm sorry, Dad..." he muttered. His chest heaved, rapid breaths sucked in and released. "I... I didn't... I don't..."

John closed his eyes for a long moment, releasing a heavy exhalation of his own. There was chagrin, almost remorse, in his expression when he looked back at Sam, and I could see it bothered him that he'd upset his son. Sam argued when he was thwarted, justified his behaviour, vigorously defended himself... This cringing distress was disturbingly unlike him, and that seemed to worry John almost as much as it baffled him.

"I'm... I'm going to... do something about this," he said at last, injured hand lifting in a vague gesture. Weary puzzlement dragged his mouth down, grooved tight lines between his eyes, and he pressed his lips together before nodding once and moving heavily from the kitchen.

Dean's gaze followed his father's retreat, and then met mine. He scrubbed one hand roughly over his face.

"Sam –"

Sam shifted uneasily on the chair.

"I'm sorry, Dean... I didn't..."

"Don't be an idiot." There was no anger in the older Winchester's voice. "I'm not upset with _you_."

"I... I know," Sam whispered. "I know, it's just..." He swallowed thickly.

"Sam... Dude, I know it's hard for you, I know this whole thing is screwed up, but you need to get past it. You can't keep... hiding... like this, freaking out every time Dad comes into the room... You can't live like that. We can't live like that."

"I _know_, Dean!" Sam lifted his head. Thin fingers interlaced, pressed together tightly between his knees. "I'm... I try... I try n-not to... to... but every time he... I k-keep remembering..." His lip quivered.

"Sammy, believe me, I know. I was there for some of it. Hell, I had my own ass handed to me. It's not that I don't understand – the son of a bitch wore Dad's face, you're going to be jumpy around Dad. I get it, I really do, but –"

"No." The monosyllable cracked in what was close to a sob. "You _don't_ get it, Dean. You... it's not –"

Dean's gaze slid away, and his jaw clenched momentarily.

"Okay, fine, I don't. I wasn't there when... I didn't see it all, and it wasn't about me. It's easy for me to tell you to get over it. But Sam... Sam, it wasn't Dad. You've got to –"

"_It was!_" The shouted words were no less shocking for the huskiness of the still-recovering vocal cords through which they were forced. Dean flinched visibly, and his freckles were stark against his sudden pallor.

"What?"

"It... it was." Sam's voice dropped as he hung his head, but the anguish was distressingly audible. "It _is_."

Green eyes, wide with consternation, flicked in my direction. I saw Dean swallow.

"Sam..."

"You know how... how shifters work, Dean. They d-don't just make stuff up. They... it's like they download thoughts from people's brains. From the people they're... copying. They t-take what they... they say w-what they..."

"Sam."

I could see understanding filtering across Dean's face. I could hear it in his choked expression of his brother's name.

"What he... w-what the shifter said... he said it cause... c-cause that's what Dad thinks."

"Sammy, no..."

"Dad wouldn't... he wouldn't _do_ all th-that... stuff... that the shifter d-did... but... b-but it doesn't mean he doesn't think it." Wetness overflowed, left glistening tracks over the bruised cheeks. "He thinks I'm a b-burden... he thinks I'm useless, and... and pathetic..."

"No." Dean was leaning forward, hands on the edge of the table and head down. "_No_."

"He... Dad wishes I'd died instead of Mom..." Sam's voice broke, the last word extinguished by the sob that shuddered through him, and he crumpled forward on the chair, pressing both hands flat to his face in a gesture of naked desolation.

Dean's grip tightened to white-knuckle intensity on the table edge, and his head dropped, hiding his face.

"Sammy." The wretchedness in that single word held me in thrall, kept me silent when I might have attempted consolation. There was nothing Dean could say, nothing either of us could say, to counter what Sam had said. There was no comfort Dean could offer when he so obviously believed it himself.

Huddled on the chair, Sam wept in strangled silence. Dean didn't move, didn't speak, but his breath caught, once, and from his downturned face something fell with a soundless splash to the table.

~oooOOOooo~

I'd always enjoyed preparing my sermons, digging into the relevant Scripture passages, exploring the expositions of other commentators. And Sunday's text was one of my favourites: I'd been looking forward to working through it.

Tonight there was no pleasure for me.

The page in front of me, which by now should have been filled with my notes, was depressingly blank. I'd pulled a commentary from the stack beside me, and even carefully underlined whole paragraphs, but I was unable to recall a single idea that I'd read.

"_Dad wishes I'd died instead of Mom..."_

My pencil scored an ugly groove in the paper.

There was something horribly inappropriate about this, about my continuation of normal life, when the lives of the two boys in my house had been so devastated. It was impossible to focus on Barclay's _Daily Study Bible_ when heartbreaking images kept intruding, of a child sobbing brokenly, of a young man's tears.

I'd not seen John after leaving the kitchen an hour earlier. Sam had gone first, dragging himself to his feet and trudging in silence from the room without looking at either Dean or me. I hadn't liked to see him go while still so emotionally distraught, hadn't liked to imagine him curled up somewhere alone with his trauma. Dean, though, hadn't tried to stop him, and he'd watched his brother leave without immediately following.

"Dean –"

"He'll be okay." Dean had understood my unspoken entreaty. "He needs... some time." He'd looked up then, and must have seen the misgiving in my eyes; something flickered across his face, and his mouth twisted. "Just because Sammy's a chatty little bi – uh – just because he runs his mouth off most of the time doesn't mean he wants us to go all Oprah on him right now." Any flippancy in the words was belied by the rigidity of his jaw.

I could only trust that he knew what he was talking about. And after all, with his fifteen years of Sam-experience it was a fair assumption.

"Dean –"

"I'm gonna go shower." He'd shut down then, face flattening into stony expressionlessness, and any words of reassurance I might have offered had remained unsaid.

"_He thinks I'm a burden... He thinks I'm useless and pathetic..."_

I thrust Barclay away a little more roughly than necessary. A faint but persistent ache throbbed behind my eyes, and I propped my elbows on the desk, pressed index and middle fingers against my temples.

By the time I delivered this sermon, John Winchester and his boys would likely have left. John would have found another hunt, would have packed up his sons and their meagre possessions and departed, truck and Impala in convoy, on his relentless quest for vengeance. Yet again his pursuit of his wife's killer would take precedence over everything else. And this emotional catastrophe would, like many of lesser enormity in the past, be ignored.

And even if it had been my business, there was nothing I could do to change the way John ran his family. They would leave, and I would be left with the memories until the next time John's work and his boys collided. Or until, eventually, it all fell apart irreparably.

I pushed up from my chair, leaning heavily on the desk as my still-recovering back protested the movement, and made a perfunctory effort to tidy the work surface. Perhaps tomorrow my thoughts would be more compliant – maybe with the buffer of a good night's sleep, I'd be able to pretend I wasn't thoroughly disturbed by the situation.

That pesky beam over the gallery was banging again, and as I closed my office door and turned towards the sanctuary I knew an unpleasant sense of déjà vu. That rattling beam... the storm growling overhead... it had only been a few days since I'd stood there under the same conditions.

And there was someone in the sanctuary.

Even as I sucked in a startled breath, I recognised him.

John was, despite his profession, not by any means a religious man. Probably the only times I'd ever seen him in a church was when he stocked up on holy water; his assurance that supernatural evil was a reality was matched only by his conviction as to the non-existence of God.

But there he was in the second row, elbows on the back of the pew in front of him and brow propped in broad palms. He'd dug his fingers into his scalp and his face was hidden, in what in anyone else I would have assumed was an attitude of prayer.

For a shameful moment I stood very still, wondering if I could escape without alerting him to my presence.

"I know you're there, Jim." He spoke without turning to face me, but his hands dropped away from his face to hang over the pew. "You need to brush up on your stealth approach."

"I wasn't trying to sneak up on you." I crossed in front of the pews. "I just didn't want to disturb you if you were – if you wanted to be alone."

He huffed a laugh that was more grim than amused.

"If I _wanted_ to be alone? It's not as if I'd have much choice in the matter." He slapped one hand against the pew, lifted his head to give me a wry smile. "I think Sam would rather slit his own throat than be around me right now."

I shifted slightly, uncomfortable at what was almost hurt in his voice. It was, unfortunately, too close to the truth to be denied.

"I mean, I get it, I do. Kid was attacked by a monster wearing my face: obviously he's going to be skittish around me. It's instinctive. And I'm sure it makes it worse that it was my face, rather than someone he didn't know – it must almost have been as if it was me doing it. I guess... I guess I just didn't think he'd still be so freaked out, now." He sighed. "But I can't expect things to be sunshine and roses so soon after that, I suppose."

"_It must almost have been..." Wait, what?_

"John –"

"That shifter... they're nasty sons of bitches at the best of times, but this one?" He ran a cautious finger over the butterfly bandages on his temple. "It was a real bastard. Sorry, Jim. Slick, too – managed to jump me right outside that bar, and I didn't even see it coming." Anger - and chagrin – flickered across his face. "I woke up in Brixton's sewerage system with one hell of a headache. Couldn't figure out what had happened, at first, until it appeared and... shifted. Into me."

His fingers closed over the top of the pew.

"And then it entertained me by telling me all the things it had planned for my children." He breathed heavily through his nose. "Been a while since I hunted a shifter – I'd forgotten how they take on memories. It knew the boys' names, where we were staying..." He broke off and dropped his head. When he spoke again his voice was muffled. "I don't want to think about what would... what could have happened if they hadn't got here first."

Shock held me motionless for a moment.

"_John_." I found my voice; it was sharper than I'd intended, and his head came up quickly. "What do you know of what happened? To Sam and Dean?"

Heavy brows dipped over suddenly wary eyes.

"No details, really – just that the shifter found them here, and... well, had a pretty good go at them both, particularly Sam. And you. Dean was holding it off when I arrived." He narrowed his eyes at me. "Why – what did I miss?"

I looked away, and then back at him.

"Pretty much everything. I should have realised –"

"Realised what?"

"That you didn't know the whole story – almost any of the story, actually. That you don't know it. I thought Dean had – I should have told you."

I'd seen anger, hurt, worry, on John's face, but for the first time since he'd arrived four days ago I was seeing fear. He rose slowly, leaning towards me on the pew.

"What happened, Jim?"

I sucked in a steadying breath.

"John, the boys didn't get here before the shifter found them."

"_What?_"

"It went to your motel. There was no reason for them to think it wasn't you. Although Dean's kicking himself six ways to Sunday for that now – it sent him off on a 'hunt' somewhere else, and he went."

"And... Sam?" John's shoulders had lifted, hunched forward tautly, and his voice was thick with dread.

I cleared my throat.

"I don't know what the shifter threatened to do to him, John, but... I'm pretty sure it... did it." I saw horror leach the colour from his face. "He was in a bad state when he got here – it had had him for two days by then."

John sank heavily back onto the seat.

"Son of a..." He rubbed his fingers over his mouth, closed his eyes for a long moment. "Sammy..." The word was a whisper, and when he spoke again he didn't look at me. "I'm guessing Dean's hunt was a bust, then? He came back and... and found Sammy like... that?" His unspoken plea was clear.

"I'm afraid not. Sam managed to get away himself, I'm not sure how. He walked here. Dean came later that evening – Thursday. The shifter tracked them here early Friday morning, just before you showed up."

John was silent, although his hard, rapid breaths were audible.

"That shifter – it was good, John. Convincing, I mean. It really knew where to hit where it hurt. And I'm not talking physically here. You and Sam... well, there's... tension... between you. I know you two disagree a lot. Your relationship is... strained." I raised my voice a little when he would have spoken. "The shifter knew all of that. It knew your history. And it used it."

John looked up, staring straight ahead; his gaze didn't meet mine, but I saw the muscles tighten in his jaw.

"What do you mean?"

I hesitated. I didn't enjoy inflicting pain on people, and my story had clearly upset John. But I didn't know how he'd react to what I was about to tell him. Because I had no idea if the shifter's words would be a surprise to him or not. And there was a small, un-Christian part of me that wanted to shock him, hurt him, for even the possibility that he could feel that way about his son.

"It said that you saw Sam as pathetic, as weak and selfish and self-centred. It said – and tried to go through with it – that it... you... should have done it years ago, but that you'd finally realised that you needed to kill Sam –"

A choked sound escaped from John, but I spoke over it.

"You needed to kill Sam, because he was useless to you, he was just a hindrance and didn't care enough about his mother to want revenge on the thing that killed her. It told Sam that he was a burden to both you and Dean. It told Dean that he'd ruined Sam for the hunting life, that he'd coddled Sam and made him weak, and when Dean fought back it said that Sam was his weakness and if he tried to protect Sam it showed he wasn't committed to avenging his mother."

"_Jim...!_"

"It told Sam – before it tried to strangle him – that you'd made a mistake: that you should have saved Mary and let Sam die."

"Son of a _bitch_!" John surged to his feet, and one closed fist slammed against the pew with an audible crack. It had to have hurt. He didn't give any indication that he'd even felt it. "That... that _bastard_... damn it to _hell_!" He roared the last word, shoulders heaving in an almost alarming display of barely-caged violence.

I'd certainly evoked a reaction, greater by far than I'd expected. I was silent for a moment, watching the emotion in his face, in rigid muscles and clenching fists, and began to allow myself to hope.

"Then... it's not... true?"

The small, faltering voice was more startling than a shout.

I felt the jolt in my still-aching back as I turned sharply. John whipped round, his rage combining with surprise to make his face truly formidable.

"Sam!"

Déjà vu – to less traumatic times – held me motionless. The raised pulpit, enclosed on all sides, had often been a refuge for a littler Sammy. Many times I'd found him in there, when John had left the boys with me or, on one occasion, after a fight with Dean. I could still remember chubby arms wrapped around sturdy little legs, curly head resting on his knees as he hid with his childish sorrow.

Now for a moment I thought I saw that baby in the thin boy who peered from within the pulpit, unruly dark hair falling over reddened, swollen eyes. He blinked hard, shrinking back a little at John's expression.

"Sammy – have you been there the whole time?" John spoke gruffly, but a little of the fury faded from his face, and he took a step towards his son.

Sam swallowed.

"It's... not true? He was lying?" The desperate plea quivered in his voice.

John stopped dead.

"True? What the shifter said? Sam!" I heard the incredulity in his voice, saw it on his face. There was hurt there, too. "You think... you actually imagine –"

"Shifters take people's actual thoughts. You... you said it yourself," Sam whispered. He dropped his gaze, staring at the floor. "We're always fighting... and you were so m-mad when you left..."

John was silent for long enough that Sam raised his eyes timidly. John's hand covered his face, and he dug his thumb and forefinger into his temples. I saw him swallow.

"I'm sorry, Sam. Son. I'm so sorry."

"For... what?" Sam's face crumpled a little.

"For not showing you enough... for not giving you enough confidence in me to know how much of a lie that was. For letting things get bad enough between us that you could actually believe I might feel like that. Sammy, I would never... I could _never_..." His voice cracked.

Sam's mouth twisted, lips pressing together hard. I recognised that face from the past, too.

"What that son of a bitch said... he was lying, Sam. It wasn't even anywhere near... within a thousand miles of the truth. I... I can't even tell you how wrong he was."

Sam's breath caught, and I saw a tear break free.

"Try..." His whisper was almost inaudible.

Something indefinable flickered across John's face. He closed the gap between them and his hands reached out, oddly tentative, to close around his son's upper arms and draw him to his feet.

"Sammy..." His grip slid down, curled around Sam's wrists and turned them over where the bandages didn't completely hide the still-angry rope burns. Sam said nothing, but his gaze followed the movement and then lifted to his father's face.

"After Mary... after your mother died... I used to go into your room at night, after you were in bed. Those first months Dean usually ended up in your crib, too." He smiled a little. "I'd just sit and watch the two of you sleep, cuddled together... I think that was the only thing that got me through that time, knowing that I had you boys. That I still had something of your mother left." He sucked in a quivering breath. "You're so like her, Sam, in so many ways... she loved her books too, you know. She liked to talk about what she was reading. When she was pregnant with you, and after you were born, she'd tell me how you were going to be her little scholar... how you were going to go to college, become a doctor or a lawyer or a scientist."

He swallowed, cleared his throat, and I saw him blink hard.

"I know we don't always see eye to eye on things... we often don't agree on what's important... but what the shifter said about you – he was wrong. You're strong, Sammy, you're a good hunter, a good researcher... don't ever think that I think you're a burden, or a hindrance on the hunt. And I may disagree with you on the importance of schoolwork over hunting, but I _am_ proud of you, that you work so hard and you do so well. I know your mother would have... would have been proud of you too."

John released Sam's wrists, and one hand lifted, fingers curving against his son's neck. His thumb brushed lightly over the livid blue-black bruise on Sam's jaw.

"I can't say I haven't thought a thousand times about that night, if there was anything I could have done to save your mother. If I'd just got there a few seconds earlier, maybe, or... I don't know. But Sam... I have never, _ever_, regretted saving you."

Wide green-blue eyes filled and overflowed; when John tugged gently, Sam came willingly into the arms that closed around him, and buried his face in his father's shoulder. John's hand curled around the nape of his neck, tangling in the soft curls.

"If I could go back, do it over... Sammy, I wouldn't save her if it meant losing you."

"D-Dad..." The quivering whisper was muffled. "_Dad_." Thin hands clutched the back of John's shirt, twisted hard in the fabric as Sam pressed himself closer, and I saw John's arms tighten around him.

"Sam!" Quick footsteps warned me just before Dean burst in through the opposite door. "Sam, where the hell –" He came to a stunned halt.

"Dean." John lifted his head, and the overhead light glinted off wetness on his cheeks that I hadn't noticed before.

"Dad?" Uncertainty took years from Dean's voice, widened his eyes as he looked from his father to Sam. "Is he... what..."

"Jim just told me what... really happened. I... I'm sorry, Dean, I didn't know – I didn't realise how bad it was."

Dean licked his lips, took a tentative step closer to his family.

"You know... what the shifter said?"

For a second remembered rage flashed across John's face.

"I know."

"Then –"

"It lied." The venom in the two words was unmistakable. John looked down at the dark head pressed against his shoulder. "I have never felt, or thought, what that son of a bitch said. Not _ever_." He raised his eyes again, and met Dean's steadily as his elder son came nearer. "And Dean, what it said about you – that you'd weakened Sam, that you weren't committed to the hunt if you protected him – that's not true, either. I don't want you to think for a moment that I think that."

"I should have known, Dad." Dean broke eye contact with his father, and his teeth worried at his lower lip. "I'd should have seen it wasn't you – I shouldn't have left Sammy –"

"It got me, Dean." John reached out with one hand, gripped Dean's upper arm. "I know it must have been convincing as hell to get past you. But you realised something was wrong, and what you did do was protect your brother, even... even when you thought it was me. You did good, Dean. You did good." His face softened into an expression I'd rarely seen, and his voice dropped. "I am so damn proud of you... of _both_ of you." He pulled Dean close and his arm went around him.

I slipped past the tight huddle of Winchesters, towards the door, but I don't think any of them saw me leave.

_**SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN SN **_

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